


Replay I thru III

by thebasement_archivist, Xanthe



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-05-15
Updated: 2001-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 52,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanthe/pseuds/Xanthe
Summary: Events from Walter's past come back to haunt not only him...





	Replay I thru III

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Replay By Sergeeva

The Replay Trilogy  
A collaboration by Sergeeva and Xanthe. (Oct.1998 - April 1999)  
Events from Walter's past come back to haunt not only him...  
"He felt suddenly dizzy and nauseous and staggered to the sink. Bending over the bowl, dry heaving, he felt as ill as he could ever remember feeling. Turning the cold water on, he pulled his glasses off and dipped his head to wash his clammy face. The stream of water seemed to twist off horizontally and he couldn't judge the distance from his cupped hands. He reached for the glasses and his uncoordinated fingers dashed them off onto the floor. The roar in his ears was deafening now and the crack of his head against the cabinet door hardly registered as he slid down onto the tiled floor, unconscious. "  
Summary. This three part story is a collaboration with Sergeeva. Events from Walter's past come back to haunt not only him...Part one was written by Sergeeva, the other two parts are a shared effort! Sergeeva wrote all the best bits though.

Replay 1: Falling  
By Sergeeva (70KB - Oct. 1998)  
CATEGORY: SRA, Slash (Mulder/Skinner UST)  
RATING: PG13 for m/m interaction.  
SPOILERS: Tiny ones for Avatar. Zero Sum, Redux II  
SUMMARY: Mulder gets into a fix and Skinner comes to the rescue.  
THANKS: To Hal, who made so many valuable suggestions, many of which I recklessly ignored, and to Xanthe, who encouraged and provided an authentic tone for Mulder's smart remarks. You're both stars, and any faults in this piece are not yours!  
DISCLAIMER: The characters of the X-Files are the creation and property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Broadcasting and the talented actors who bring them to life. No infrindgement of coypright is intended and no money is being made from their use here. The other characters portrayed herein are the creation of the author and may not be used without permission.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is the first part of the Replay trilogy. It is continued in Replay 2: Another Country and Replay 3: Warm Thoughts. My other stories (nearly all M/Sk) can be found in Sergeeva's Walter Altar at: http:www.geocities.com/Area51/Shire/7155  
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated and answered. Write to me at 

* * *

Mulder put down the cell-phone and breathed a silent prayer of thanks to whatever gods were looking out for his good fortune. Half an hour ago he wouldn't have given much for his chances, but the odds had just altered dramatically in his favour. So okay, he would still have to face more consequences than he liked to think of right now, and he wasn't out of the woods yet (see, I can still do irony, he told himself wryly) but it was going to be ALL RIGHT. He knew this with a confidence that had everything to do with his personality, and very little to do with his life. Experience should have told him that fate is sneaky and doesn't follow a nice orderly plan.

He still couldn't quite believe he'd had the nerve to call Skinner while the man was on vacation, and he was even more incredulous that his boss had agreed to come down here and bail him out. It was way more than he had a right to expect and was the whole reason for his renewed optimism. Scully would definitely kill him after this - she'd made it perfectly clear that if he pursued this 'ludicrous old wives' tale', those were her very words, on his own, then she washed her hands of him. He didn't see what the problem was, he'd just slip into the country, check out the evidence and slip out again, another foreigner passing through. And that would have been fine, except that his contact here had disappeared back to wherever he came from with most of Mulder's money, leaving the agent trying to find the site on his own with no help at all from an increasingly suspicious and hostile local populace, who definitely didn't want to be told there might be ectoplasm in their backyard.

He'd tried in vain to get anyone to guide him to the site. They clearly thought he was deranged and he was beginning to wonder if there really was anything going on here, other than his own over-eagerness to follow the most ridiculous of leads. But what if there was something weird to discover? ... He could feel the itch to find out for himself and he knew he wasn't ready to give up just yet. After two days plunging about in the jungle on his own he was a lot more ready. It was a nightmare. Eaten alive by the vicious insect life, every stitch of clothing he'd brought waterlogged and still no nearer finding the location of the sightings. He was getting desperate and more and more sorry for himself with every passing moment.

He thought about calling Scully, of course, but dismissed that idea at once. He could imagine her scathing 'I told you so' voice and he wasn't going to expose himself to that until he was safely back in civilization. He thought about calling Frohike, but the thought of the Gunmen's helpless laughter was even less appealing, so he called Skinner, surprised to find that he was confident of getting more than laughter or dismissive sarcasm from his boss. Skinner would be mad of course (Mulder could picture the man's jaw clenching), but he'd listen and he'd get Mulder out of this hellhole with a minimum of fuss. He didn't realize that he'd be dragging the AD back from scuba diving in Antigua. He knew that his boss was taking some vacation time (hell, that was why he and Scully were on their own time too right now - they didn't want to be under the supervision of another AD even temporarily), but he hadn't imagined Skinner actually taking a holiday. The man was such a workaholic.

He had to bully and cajole Kimberly into giving him the number of Skinner's hotel in St.John's. She was a good PA, defensive of her boss's privacy, but it was Mulder and she knew Skinner might have a bigger problem to sort out if he didn't speak to his troublesome agent sooner rather than later. She gave Mulder the number and hoped for the best. Mulder tried to formulate his explanation to the AD, but soon gave up - this was a fuck-up, there was no point in trying to pretend otherwise. He would just have to face Skinner's wrath.

"Sir?" (Best to be as by-the-book as possible... )

"Mulder? Only you could track me down out here. What is it?"

"It wasn't totally my fault, sir..."

He was astonished when Skinner sighed resignedly at finding out who his caller was, but then agreed to cut short his trip and come to Mulder's rescue. He sounded almost amused by Mulder's tale of woe. He would certainly not let his subordinate forget about this little debacle for a long time, but he also murmured something about life with Mulder never being boring and Mulder wondered if his stern and straight-laced boss could possibly rather be suffering in this humid airless jungle than relaxing in the sun. Perhaps he misses his days in the field, Mulder speculated, perhaps the scuba diving isn't enough of a challenge for an ex-Marine. He had a sudden poignant insight - could he be lonely?

The relationship between the two men had improved considerably since the early days of distrust and antagonism. Mulder had learned to respect his boss, learned that he could trust the older man, learned that Skinner was fair and honourable and loyal to his agents. The man had proven that time and again. Mulder didn't regret his own loyalty to Skinner during the business with the prostitute, the shooting of Detective Thomas, or the exposure of Blevins. He still felt that his boss was an enigma, but it was one he thought he'd like to penetrate. Sometimes he felt that Skinner wanted to open up to him, saw a look in those dark eyes that made him wonder if Skinner needed a friend who shared the same dark world and could understand what it did to a man's soul. Maybe all this is just my imagination, thought Mulder, maybe he's coming down here to give me the worst ass-chewing of my entire sorry career... But if not, if this intensely private man is coming, not as a boss, but as a friend, then I'm going to show him how much I value that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Walter Skinner put down the cell-phone and smiled wryly to himself at the conversation just ended. Ectoplasm in the jungle? Mysterious glowing shapes moving through the forest at night? Just the sort of thing Mulder would feel he had to investigate. He wondered if he'd ever really understand Fox Mulder: the man was such a mass of contradictions, such certainty and such self-doubt. Certainty over his work, his 'cause', his 'quest' - an energy and dedication that Skinner had rarely encountered in his life, but also self-doubt over his own abilities, his own worth, a deep, self-destructive streak that made Skinner so angry. Mulder was exceptional in so many ways and yet he seemed to value himself so little. Skinner was carrying on a concerted campaign to try and change that, to show Mulder that not everyone saw him as a worthless eccentric, to repay some of the trust that Mulder had shown in him.

He had barely hesitated over his decision to go to Mulder's aid in this latest crisis. He'd been looking forward to the prospect of this vacation, his first in nearly two years and a chance to brush up his diving skills and unwind after a gruelling few months at work. He soaked up the sun and explored the wonders of the coral reefs until now he was as burnished as a chestnut and bored out of his mind. The beach-holiday mentality just didn't suit him: he was no good at casual acquaintance and the ritual of drinks in the bar, card-games on the terrace and flirtation on the dance-floor was anathema to him. It made him grouchy and unapproachable and the several women (and two men) who tried to catch his attention soon gave up and left him to his own restless company. He pretended to be furious when Mulder called but in truth he welcomed the reprieve. He was unexpectedly touched that Mulder had called him, and had already started making a mental list of what equipment he might need for the rescue op (he shook his head at how easily he slipped back into the military mind-set). This trip would do him far more good than a relaxing vacation and it would be a chance to get to know his brilliant and infuriating subordinate better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder started cramming gear into his small backpack and striking his makeshift camp with renewed energy. Suddenly it was all an adventure again. He calculated it would take Skinner at least 12 hours to get here, or rather to the tiny settlement that was their agreed rendezvous point and the nearest thing to a town in these parts. He'd left it in the early hours of that morning to try yet another route through the impenetrable vegetation, hoping to reach the remote weather station that had first reported the phenomena. It would take him the rest of day to hike back to the little town, but then he shouldn't have too long to wait for Skinner. That was just as well. The locals had started avoiding him, gabbling to each other in their indecipherable dialect, shutting their shop doors as he approached, waving their arms angrily when he tried to offer credit cards in payment for transport or the services of a guide. Short of finding his own way out on foot to a real town with an airport (and the place he'd flown in to and been driven here from had been a day's drive away), he was stuck here without outside help.

The last two days had proven to him how ill equipped he was for all this outdoor stuff. He looked miserably at his damp clothes. He hadn't given a lot of thought to what to bring, just shoved a pair of jeans and a few T-shirts into his pack along with the socks and underwear. Of course, the jeans were far too heavy and clung to him in the humid air, like stiff, wet cardboard. The T-shirts were light enough but they were sweat-soaked and clingy too inside an hour in this climate and his bare arms were an open invitation to every stinging and biting insect within a hundred miles. He brought one tube of anti-histamine cream and used that up on the first day. After that he took to wearing one T-shirt and winding the others around his arms to keep his skin covered. He thought about cutting the legs off his jeans to get relief from the chafing fabric, but then his legs would get insect bites too and he already had a few around his ankles from enterprising ants or whatever that must have crawled up inside the jeans.

Skinner will really enjoy telling me what a sorry specimen I am, he thought, realizing with surprise that he cared what Skinner thought of him, and that Skinner was about the only person in the world, Scully included, that he wouldn't mind seeing him like this. Still pondering on this thought he hoisted his bulging backpack and set off into the dense jungle in what he was confident was the direction of the town.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Skinner winced as the rented 4-wheel drive vehicle bounced over the potholed track and jolted him repeatedly against the door panel. Patience may be a virtue, he fumed, but I think I lost the last of mine about two hours ago. I'm going to have Mulder on surveillance duty for months to make up for this. He allowed himself a moment of genuine anger, then shook his head in resigned amusement... you dropped yourself into this, Walt. No way could this be covered by the job description!

It was no holiday outing negotiating the rough unsurfaced roadway to the village. The map looked clear enough, but the jungle was criss-crossed by a maze of twisting tracks and he had to keep one eye on the compass as he fought to keep the vehicle from canting over and plunging down into a hidden gorge or over an unseen cliff. By the time he rattled into the village it was dark and Mulder was nowhere to be seen. His cautious inquiries met with hostility and revealed that Mulder had managed to alienate just about everyone who might have helped them in the five days he'd been down here. What the hell has he been telling these people? I could make a shrewd guess, he thought, as he fended off the suspicious questions of the local police. He had known, really, that it couldn't be as simple as just turning up, meeting Mulder and driving them both out of here. He would wait here tonight and then he'd have to try and locate Mulder himself.

He resigned himself to an uncomfortable night in the rented vehicle and when dawn came with still no sign of Mulder, he rose, shouldered his own carefully-packed rucksack and set off into the jungle, map in hand to search for Mulder. If the worst came to the worst and he couldn't find him, he'd make for the weather station and radio out for help, but he hoped they could just get out of here discreetly, the two of them, without involving the authorities. No point in Mulder getting another black mark on his record - after all, they were both on their own time... He surprised himself, sometimes, with the allowances he made for Mulder. What was it about that young man that got to him?

It was two hours before he found a sign that showed he was on the right track - a pile of sunflower-seed shells on muddy ground near a waterfall. Boot prints were clear in the soft ground and from there Skinner could follow Mulder's trail easily enough: an aimless, circular route. Surprised to find how his jungle-tracking skills came back to him, Skinner fought against the images that came flooding back to him as well... This was altogether too reminiscent of patrols in 'Nam: the stifling, dripping heat, the incessant, maddening chatter of insects, the endless lush greenery, featureless and disorienting. The sounds and smells of the jungle assailed him with unwelcome familiarity and he distracted himself with a flash of anger towards Mulder. Damn him - why couldn't he just go through channels to open a case, like every other agent? He really was worried about the man now, fearful that he'd met with an accident, and worry always made him angry. A day spent in this hell, perpetually one step behind his quarry and visited by altogether too many painful memories and he was ready to haul Mulder's tiresome butt back to DC without ceremony.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder finally had to admit to himself that he was lost. His hand-drawn map, so thoughtfully provided by the vanished guide, had disintegrated in the damp atmosphere and now he was trying to navigate by the few shafts of sun that pierced the heavy canopy of trees and by an over-confident idea of his own familiarity with an area he thought he knew after four days of exploration.

When he came to the ravine for the first time he knew he was off-course, he'd never seen this place before and had no idea of its relation to the village or the weather station. It was a bit of a setback, true, but he might as well take advantage of the location and cool off under the waterfall that tumbled down the rocky wall. The pleasure in skinning off his sweat-soaked clothes was worth the delay, he decided, stepping under the blissful chill of the water. Tiny jewelled birds darted in and out of crannies in the cliff above him. The sun pierced the canopy of trees to glitter in the splashing water. For a brief while, he could see the beauties of this place. It was repellent to have to put his stained and sodden clothes back on but he had no choice. He felt much better for the shower and sat letting his feet dry before he put his boots on again, enjoying his exotic surroundings for the first time, wishing he had something to eat besides his ever-present sunflower seeds.

When he came upon the same ravine a second time, hours later, after walking obviously in a circle, he was so disheartened he nearly wept with frustration. Instead though, he removed his boots and headed for the waterfall again. That's when it happened. He was carrying his pack to fill his water bottle, watching the little birds circle, craning his neck to peer up at the towering rock-face. Suddenly his feet slithered out from under him on the moss-covered stones, he clutched vainly at the slick rock, arms flailing and felt himself falling...

Crashing fifty feet down from where the waterfall splashed, Mulder incongruously thought of Alice in Wonderland. Down through creepers and prickly vines he plunged, down into the depths of the ravine, wrenching his ankle as he fell and cracking his head as he landed. Winded and stunned he lay gasping, tangled in a thorny bush, his limbs sprawled at painful angles, slowly taking stock of his situation. He wasn't knocked out - that had to be good - but he didn't think he could move. He lifted an arm tentatively and felt the thorns claw at his shoulder. Closing his eyes against the hopelessness of it all, he fought against tears. He felt bruised all over, helplessly trapped in the entwining undergrowth and now, as darkness fell, more than a little scared.

He could die out here. He felt so sore everywhere he couldn't even tell what his injuries were. To make matters worse, he realised his pack (including cell-phone and water bottle) were long gone and he couldn't see more than a few feet in any direction so he knew Skinner would never find him. What a way to die, he fumed. Vampires, flukemen, cockroaches - no problem, but try and deal with the Great Outdoors and you're a joke! He spent the night feeling sorry for himself, scared to move in case he injured himself further, startled by every strange noise, dripped on by the endless sopping vegetation and crawled over by what felt like armies of ants, platoons of beetles and not a few snakes (unless fever had set in and he was hallucinating). When it began to grow light he talked sternly to himself and decided to try and find the extent of his disability. That's what Scully would do, he thought, and then wished he hadn't brought her to mind when he was in quite such an embarrassing fix.

Taking inventory of his injuries, he found he was scratched and bruised, his left ankle was swollen and purple and he had an impressive bump on his head, but he wasn't quite as helpless as he'd feared. Very carefully he began to extricate himself from the thorns and strangling vines. He knew he had to at least try and get himself back up to the ledge from which he'd fallen. Cautiously lifting his weight off the spreading bush where he'd landed started him sliding further down the gorge. His T-shirt snagged on the spiny twigs and he winced as his chest raked over the thorns. Barely managing to catch onto a strand of vine as his footing gave way, he heaved a sigh of relief as it held fast and he was able to begin the painful ascent. It was slow progress, as his ankle wouldn't support his weight and he had to rely on the strength of his arms to pull himself up from one wet, slithery bush to another. It was exhausting and his hands were soon cramped and raw from gripping desperately to every slick handhold.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Following Mulder's aimless route, Skinner was getting increasingly anxious. He'd seen fresh boot-prints just half an hour previously, before the light got too low to see anything more and he was forced to make camp for the night. He'd hoped to catch up with the younger man by now, but he had the sense to know when to call it a day. Laying out his thin waterproof groundsheet and hanging the mosquito net from an overhanging branch he hoped that Mulder was getting some sleep wherever he was. Thinking of Mulder's foolhardiness got him steamed again and he pegged down the edges of the netting around his sleeping area with cathartic viciousness. After stowing his pack inside the netting to use as a pillow, brushing his teeth in a measured amount of the precious fresh water and relieving himself, he crawled into his makeshift tent and closed his eyes.

He couldn't sleep, though. Visions crowded in as he listened to the slithering, buzzing and rustling sounds of the night-time jungle. Visions of night patrol in Hua Binh, when you had to lie in three inches of stinking swamp water and kick the river rats away from your boots in the night, when your underwear rotted under your uniform and food went bad overnight in the heat and humidity. Visions of the sky lit up with tracers and the beat of Hueys in the heavy air, of Jacko and Hog playing poker by the light of a candle set inside a coffee can, of trying to read a letter from home while Charlie laid down saturation fire and you were belly down in the mud with three other frightened 18yr-olds, squeezing your eyes shut against the light and noise and trying to remember how your girlfriend's kisses tasted...

Skinner fought free of the memories and tried to wrench himself back to the present, but that only brought new visions: of Mulder wandering blindly in circles, or lying injured somewhere. He felt guilt for the past and anxiety for the present in equal measure and neither was an aid to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dawn found Mulder lying precariously on a ledge still far below the path by the waterfall from which he'd fallen. His bare feet were scratched and swollen with bites, his injured ankle was a rainbow of bruising and too tender to touch and his arms and hands were numb with bearing his own weight for so long. He'd climbed for what seemed like hours, slipping backwards as often as he gained ground. It was torture. As his strength seeped out of him, he was moving on automatic pilot. Finally exhaustion overtook him and he lay where he was. He needed water badly and managed to roll himself under a large leafy plant nearby where he could catch the drips sliding off the huge leathery leaves. The water tasted bitter however. It's probably a poisonous plant and I'll die soon in excruciating agony, he thought, gloomily. The bleak thought suddenly struck him as ridiculously doom-laden and he started giggling uncontrollably.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Skinner, entering the ravine, recognized the towering rocky cliff with the narrow fall of water and the steep, densely covered drop from the day before. If Mulder had also walked himself back to this spot for the second time he would be getting desperate by now and might do something reckless. He pushed forward along the narrow path and then spotted the boots lying in the mud near a new collection of sunflower-seed shells. He looked around, spotting broken branches near where the waterfall cascaded over mossy rocks. Watching his own footing on the slippery surface, he peered over the edge of the drop and saw a swathe of flattened vegetation where something had crashed down through the matted undergrowth. He began calling out:

"Mulder, are you down there? Can you answer, tell me where you are?"

He moved gingerly along the wet rocky lip of the ravine, scanning for any sign of Mulder and suddenly, as he moved away from the splashing of the waterfall, he heard what sounded like giggling. I'm hallucinating, he reprimanded himself, get a grip, man! But he moved towards the sounds, which grew louder.

Mulder looked up at the ledge so impossibly far above him and couldn't believe his eyes: Walter Skinner peered down at him, looking for all the world like the original Action Man. He wore baggy green fatigues, the legs of the cargo pants tucked into mean-looking combat boots, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up on the muscled forearms, a bandanna tied over his bald head and hanging down over his bare neck, and the frame of an impressive-looking rucksack visible behind his broad shoulders. As Mulder watched, light-headed with relief, Skinner shrugged out of the rucksack harness and started to clamber down the side of the ravine. Gazing entranced, his aches forgotten, Mulder saw his normally sober-suited boss swing himself agilely down the cliff face, flexing his impressive muscles and looking as if this was all second nature to him.

When Skinner reached the ledge where he lay and crouched down beside him to examine his injuries, Mulder could hardly recognize him for the same man he saw sitting at his desk in the Hoover Building. This Skinner was still brisk and stern but seemed younger, radiating energy and competence, his face taut and lean under the dark tan, his hands gentle and efficient. Carefully he checked Mulder over: feeling his brow for fever, finding the goose-egg on the back of his skull from the fall, inspecting his raw and stinging hands, his arms spotted with insect bites, his poor distorted ankle.

"I thought you weren't coming. I thought you wouldn't find me. I didn't think anybody would find me...not out here." Mulder babbled, in a rasping voice that sounded nothing like his usual dry tones.

"You certainly didn't make it easy." Skinner told him. "Next time you want me to re-discover my orienteering and tracking skills, I'd be grateful if you could give me some warning so I can take a refresher course. Now does this hurt?"

His hand gently rested on Mulder's ankle, examining it carefully. Mulder bit back a cry of pain.

"No. It's not too bad," he said, wincing. Skinner sighed.

"Mulder, I can't assess your injuries unless you're honest with me. Does it hurt?" He asked again.

"Yes." Mulder yelped as Skinner's fingers probed the bone.

"Okay. Okay. I think it's clear that's broken." Skinner gave one of his rare smiles and shook his head ruefully. "How do you get yourself into these situations, Mulder? No, don't answer that just now. Let's just concentrate on getting you out of here. Do you hurt anywhere else?"

"No." Mulder looked down, flushing. Hell, he hurt all over. Skinner might as well have asked him where he didn't hurt.

"Let me check that." Skinner said softly.

His strong hands moved over Mulder, causing a minimum of pain, taking his time, noting the parched lips, the bruises over ribs and knees, the scratched and battered feet, asking the occasional question: "Can you bend your knee?" "Is your vision blurred at all?" "How's your breathing?" Mulder was torn between wanting to hug the man and wanting to burst into tears. The incredible relief of not being alone, of not facing death alone, the calm presence of the other man... he'd never felt so safe, so like letting go, in all his life. It was overwhelming. Just as he felt sure he would start weeping, Skinner levered him up to lean shakily against the rocky wall while he uncoiled a length of rope from around his waist and fed it through Mulder's belt loops. Mulder closed his eyes and concentrated on not putting any weight on his injured ankle. A touch on his shoulder made him open his eyes again, to find Skinner's penetrating gaze fixed on him.

"I know your arms and hands haven't much grip left at the moment, so I'll rope you against me while I get us up to the path. You'll need to try and stay close against my back because if you flop backward your weight could pull us both off the rock - do you understand, Fox?"

He started at the use of his first name but nodded a response, realizing it was probably intended to get his attention, and saw Skinner loop the rope around his chest and shoulder, so that Mulder was held against the broad back as Skinner faced the rock-face. Mulder wrapped his arms around Skinner's neck, his abused muscles protesting at even this weak clasp, and tried to tuck his left leg up against Skinner's hip, so that his bruised ankle didn't dangle so painfully. They began the ascent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was an agonizingly slow process. Skinner couldn't reach for hand and foot holds easily and couldn't grab for vines to swing himself higher as he would have been able to without the burden of Mulder's weight. Still, he inched them onward up the treacherous cliff and Mulder could only marvel at the strength of the ex-Marine as he pressed on, denying the tremors in his muscles and the rasping of his dry throat. When they eventually made it to the luxury of the wider pathway, Skinner carefully untied the rope and took Mulder's weight in his arms as he settled him down on the muddy ground.

"Um... you don't have to worry about me now, sir, I'll be fine."

"Just rest a while, Mulder, okay? Take help when it's offered."

Mulder wanted to say something more, to thank Skinner for his rescue, but his boss just gave him a brief unreadable look and went to retrieve his backpack. He spread out the groundsheet and lifted Mulder onto it, then laid out an impressive array of medical supplies and some dry clothes.

"I'll just get some water." he said gruffly and went to fill the water bottle.

"Watch out for the wet rocks underfoot," Mulder called out, "that's how I..." but Skinner was standing firm, legs braced on the slippery surface, one hand grasping a vine as he held the bottle under the falling water.

Mulder closed his eyes again and heard rather than saw Skinner return. That gentle hand was on his shoulder again, helping him to sit up, and he let Skinner cut the ragged T-shirt off him. Warm hands rubbed liniment into his aching arms and shoulders, the spreading heat making him drowsy. A cool, clean shirt like Skinner's own was slid onto him and then Skinner pushed him gently back to lie flat and began to unbutton the mud-encrusted jeans. Mulder's eyes flew open at the feel of those blunt fingers at his waistband but Skinner shushed him and held up a pair of dry cargo pants in explanation. Soon he was cool and dry, his aches and bites treated, his ankle bound in a support bandage and his scarred hands and feet washed and dressed. He sat with a stainless steel cup of cool water held clumsily in his bandaged hands and felt a hundred times better than he'd felt in days. He watched Skinner as he packed away the supplies and re-filled the water bottle yet again. The man had hardly paused for rest since he'd first found Mulder but his concern was all for the younger man, his own needs coming second.

Skinner came back to where he lay and hunkered down next to him, seeming embarrassed about something.

"You know, you're not going to be able to walk on that ankle, don't you?" Mulder nodded, knowing what was coming.

"You can leave me here while you go for help," he said, I'll be fine." Skinner's eyes widened in surprise.

"No, there's no way I'm leaving you like this," he stated. "I've been looking at the map." He produced the chart, folded open to the relevant section, "We're here," pointing to a spot that looked like all the others to Mulder, "and that weather station you mentioned is here," indicating another spot. "It's a lot nearer than that village. We could make it there in 6 or 7 hours and there'll be a radio there - we can call for a helicopter to fly you out... The only thing is, you'll have to let me carry you there..."

He looked apologetically at Mulder. Mulder swallowed hard and looked into his boss's concerned face.

"I don't like being as helpless as this and I don't know how you think you can carry me in this heat for 6 or 7 hours, but I'll do whatever you want - you seem to know your jungle survival stuff."

As soon as he'd said it he wished he could call the words back. He saw the pain pass over Skinner's face like a shadow and the dark eyes lose focus for a moment as they saw another jungle on another continent. Shit, he berated himself, make sure the guy relives it all again, why don't you. But Skinner straightened and looked at him again, saying mildly:

"Yeah, well I've survived worse than this in my time."

Mulder felt a wave of wretched misery pass over him.

"You must think I'm a complete idiot," he muttered.

"Not a complete idiot, no." Skinner shook his head.

"Just as headstrong and unprepared as usual. The day you think first and act second is the day I can retire a happy man, Mulder."

"I'm sorry. Bringing you out here to rescue me. I've screwed up your vacation..." Mulder began. Skinner snorted.

"Hmm. Sitting on a beach doing nothing is not my idea of fun. You did me a favour. I much prefer tramping through jungles and rescuing injured colleagues."

Mulder wasn't sure whether his boss was joking or not. Certainly Skinner didn't smile, but that wasn't necessarily a clue to his boss's mood. Mulder didn't see how Skinner couldn't be pissed off at his latest escapade but he didn't want any recriminations right now and Skinner certainly didn't seem to be in the mood for them either.

Skinner lifted Mulder up and carried him to where he could lean against the rock. Then his boss folded the groundsheet and stowed it in the pack before unstrapping the pack from its aluminium frame and hoisting it against his chest. Turning his back to Mulder he asked:

"Can you manage to fasten the straps across my back? That'll keep it in place, then I can carry you piggy-back and spread the load a bit."

Now he was grinning broadly, trying to make light of the daunting task and Mulder's heart lurched with affection for the man who stood by him uncomplainingly - who had stood by him on so many occasions. His bandaged hands fumbled with the straps and clasps but eventually he snapped the last fastener and tugged the straps tight. Skinner boosted Mulder up behind him and hooked his arms under Mulder's thighs. He started to walk, testing out the balance of weight at first, but soon striding out as if carrying a 6ft-something man was something he often had to do.

"I'm going to make a stop every hour or so, so we can relieve ourselves and I can check the map and look at your dressings. Doze if it's easier for you - I don't need to be entertained - but I'm going to ask you often if you've remembered to drink some water. You'll be in shock from yesterday, whether you feel it or not and it's important you don't get dehydrated. It's nearly noon now so we'll be travelling in the hottest part of the day and since your kit got lost we have only the one water bottle. You hang onto it and try to remember to take a sip every 15 minutes or so. I'll ask if I need it myself."

So calm, so capable, so practical. Mulder couldn't be embarrassed about the situation when Skinner was so matter-of-fact about it. He concentrated on staying still and not digging his knees or elbows into Skinner. Soon the rhythm of the big man's strides lulled him into drowsiness and he drifted off, only to be roused by his boss's soft voice asking: "Water, Mulder - did you remember?" He uncurled one arm from around Skinner's neck and balanced the bottle between his chest and his boss's back so he could unscrew the cap. Having drunk, he passed the bottle forward for Skinner, but the other man declined.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the first hour, during which Mulder had dozed between water doses, Skinner found a shallow cave where the heat of the sun at its zenith didn't penetrate. He lowered Mulder carefully to the ground and bit back a hiss of pain as his own cramped shoulder muscles were relieved of Mulder's weight. He knelt so that Mulder could unfasten the backpack and then stood and stretched. Mulder watched the big man methodically circling each shoulder, captivated by the sight of the muscles flexing and bunching under the sweat-dampened shirt. Skinner turned back to him.

"You need to pee?" No awkwardness, just practicality.

"Mmm, 'fraid so."

"OK - I'll find you a spot where you can lean against something and keep the weight off that ankle, after that you're on your own."

Quick little grin, transforming the stern face into something startlingly youthful. Mulder blinked, feeling something spark deep inside him, and when Skinner lifted him and swung him up into his arms again he closed his eyes and didn't dare look his boss in the eyes. Where had this growing attraction come from all of a sudden? Was it just gratitude at being taken care of? Thinking about it as he attended to his business, Mulder knew that it wasn't something sudden - it had been there in the back of his mind for a long while now. All those boring meetings when instead of doodling, he'd allowed his gaze to rest on the span of those broad shoulders, the strength in those hands... He'd taken in the physique, the sternly handsome face, the expressive eyes. Fooled himself that he was just observing, that it was better to know your enemy. But he hadn't thought of Skinner as the enemy for a good while now, and he certainly wasn't thinking of him that way now.

It got even harder to keep his cool when they came back to the cave and Skinner started to check Mulder's injuries.

"Take your shirt off, Mulder." Skinner told him and he did as he was told, his mind fogged by the events of the day and by his new self-knowledge. When the big hands started smoothing fresh ointment onto his shoulders, hands and feet, Mulder wanted to groan aloud. He didn't dare to look at Skinner's face: one glimpse of those grave, concentrated features and he'd fling himself against the broad chest and embarrass both Skinner and himself. Skinner's simple kindnesses today struck Mulder as showing more care than he had ever gotten from his parents when he got into childhood scrapes. He wasn't thinking of Skinner as a substitute parent, though. Far from it. He pushed those ideas away.

They pressed on. Another hour of suffocating heat as they moved onward, climbing steadily now. The vegetation was changing: sparser, but now there were impenetrable thickets of lethally spiked briars that they had to detour around. Skinner checked the map constantly, relieved as each expected landmark came into view. They were making pretty good time and if his own stamina held out they would reach the weather station before nightfall. He was concerned about their dwindling water supply, though. He'd stopped taking any for himself a while back. Mulder was weakened with injury and probably concussed (he'd definitely had a strange look about him at the last stop) and he must keep his fluids up. Skinner knew about survival techniques and that he ran a risk of dehydration himself by not drinking anything, but there wasn't a choice. They hadn't enough to share, they might not find a fresh source any time soon, he at least was uninjured and in good condition. He'd just have to survive - Mulder needed him to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder was trying not to enjoy being carried on Skinner's back. He was very conscious of how exhausting it must be for the older man and his worry for Skinner's own well-being only made this more of a torment. He now had an intimate knowledge of every perfect muscle across Skinner's shoulders and of the smooth skin of his neck, the scent of the man's sweat, the sound of his breathing. All of this was only making him more and more attracted to his boss, which was the last thing either of them needed right now. It was almost unbearable, though, to be pressed against all that muscle, the high curve of Skinner's ass against his groin, the lobe of Skinner's ear just within reach of his yearning lips... If his boss hadn't been wearing that bandanna to keep the sun off he'd have kissed that beautiful bald head long before now. All he needed now was to get a hard-on.

He didn't have long to wait. They stopped shortly in the shadow of a massive rock formation. Water had collected in the weathered strata, which had formed into shelves and hollows like a miniature cave settlement.

"Thank God! A decent drink at last" Mulder started to lower himself from Skinner's back. Skinner set him gently on a rock ledge and let him unbuckle the rucksack harness. He extracted the steel cup.

"You stay put. I'll go check these pools out."

Both men felt the relief of being able to replenish the nearly empty water supply, but when Skinner inspected the water it had a blue-green sediment, leached from the rock, which he recognized as copper sulphate, making it undrinkable. It can't be helped, he rationalised, turning wearily back to Mulder.

"We're out of luck. It's contaminated. We'll just have to keep going." He looked away from Mulder's disappointed expression.

Skinner calculated they had about another 2 hours to go until they reached the weather station. Mulder could just about last out on the little remaining water. As for himself, he was trying to ignore the signs of his own deteriorating condition. He spoke hardly at all now, his throat so parched it was painful, he felt light-headed when he moved too quickly and the persistent headache he'd been tolerating for the last 40 minutes was now a sickening throb behind his temples. At least they could use the mineral-rich water for washing, without risk of poisoning themselves. Mulder would need a hand, but they would both feel better for a makeshift shower. Huskily, he explained the situation to Mulder as succinctly as possible and helped the younger man to get out of his shirt.

"You're sure this won't poison us?" persisted Mulder. Skinner cleared his throat painfully.

"Reasonably sure. Now do you want my help or not?"

Mulder noted the signs of patience wearing thin and held his tongue for once.

Holding his bandaged hands out of the way, Mulder let Skinner pour cupfuls of the cool water over his sweaty shoulders. It had felt wonderful to peel off the sticky shirt and now to feel the fresh stream over his back and chest was better than he could have imagined. While he dried off, Mulder watched Skinner take off his own shirt. Apart from a patch on the back where Mulder's own sweaty chest had been resting, Skinner's shirt wasn't soaked, as his own had been. Mulder noted this fact absently, but his mind was focussed on the sight before him: Skinner's perfect bronzed torso glistening as his boss sluiced the cooling water over himself. As he feasted his eyes on the washboard stomach and bulging pectorals, Mulder felt his cock twitch and his heart sink. How was he going to endure another hour of close contact with Skinner's incredible body when his own body was betraying him so rampantly?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He found out soon enough when they resumed their journey. His crotch was pressed against the small of Skinner's back, every tiny movement rubbing against his swollen cock. The worst of it was that he knew Skinner must be aware of it and yet his boss made no sign that anything was unusual. When they stopped to relieve themselves, Skinner carried him to a thickly planted spot, gave him an enigmatic look with one eyebrow quirked, and took himself a good distance away. Mulder shamefacedly relieved both his libido and his bladder.

Skinner had realized his companion's condition of course, but he was feeling so awful himself by now, he didn't have the energy to speculate on why Mulder was sexually aroused under these circumstances. He'd noticed that he'd stopped sweating a while back - a sure sign of dehydration, as the body tried to conserve all it's fluids. He was finding it hard to read the map now, with the dizziness and the blurred vision. If he could just get Mulder to the weather station they could summon help and Mulder would be okay.

"Ready?" Skinner asked Mulder when it was time to move on again.

"Yeah. But then I'm not the one doing all the walking." Mulder shrugged. "Look, sir, this must be wearing you out. Perhaps we should stop, make camp or something...I don't know."

"Mulder, we need water. We can't afford to stop here." Skinner told him brusquely.

"Whatever." Mulder shrugged. "But what if there isn't any water at the weather station either, sir?" He voiced the fear that Skinner had silently been nursing.

"Then we'll just have to hope for a quick rescue." Skinner snapped.

Skinner's arms and shoulders protested agonizingly as he strapped on the back-pack for the last push and made sure Mulder was securely perched on his back. With weary legs he set off up the now steep trail to the ridge ahead of them where they should find the weather station. Mulder mistook Skinner's silence for disapproval. He felt desperately ashamed of his hard-on and for precipitating this whole crisis in the first place. He wondered if his boss was cursing him, calling him every name under the sun under his breath. If their situations had been reversed he was not sure he could have been as charitable as Skinner seemed to be.

"I, uh, could probably try hopping," he suggested. Skinner grunted.

"I don't think so, Mulder."

"No. Really. I'm feeling much better." Mulder insisted. "It would probably be quicker. I could lean on your shoulder or something." He struggled to get down and Skinner stopped, taking a deep breath.

"Mulder. Just keep still or we'll both topple over. You can't hop. It's a ludicrous suggestion. Now just stay where you are."

"But..."

"And don't talk." Skinner told him firmly. Mulder shut up.

Mulder began to realize that Skinner was in trouble when the big man staggered twice in quick succession and Mulder, clutching at his neck as Skinner stumbled forward, felt the dry burning skin, almost too hot to touch. He spoke to Skinner, suggesting they take another break, risking the other man's wrath by repeating his offer to hobble along on his own for a bit, but Skinner didn't acknowledge him and continued to climb doggedly upward as if even a tank couldn't deflect him from his course. Mulder hoped it was just sheer exhaustion that was affecting Skinner. For the hundredth time that day he felt the guilt of his responsibility for this mess. He knew Skinner would tell him exactly how many procedural guidelines he'd broken and how much he had cost the American taxpayer as soon as they were out of here. He'd take his punishment, though his heart quailed at the prospect of the months of surveillance duty he'd no doubt have to endure. He just hoped he hadn't irrevocably ruined the working relationship he and Skinner had managed to arrive at. Not to mention any other... no, don't go there...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The squat building of the weather station came into view just as Skinner's legs were about to crumple under him. He staggered the last few yards to the padlocked door, lowered Mulder and the pack gratefully to the ground, and summoned almost his last reserves of strength to burst the hasp from the doorframe with a kick that nearly toppled him backward. Recovering himself, he carried Mulder inside and laid him on one of the canvas beds in the bunkroom. Barely able to see now, he croaked his intention to go and find the radio and managed to walk away from the younger man with a straight back. No good worrying Mulder about this, he told himself; a good long drink of water and I'll be fine.

He found the radio - an antiquated model, not unlike those he'd used in 'Nam. This familiarity stood him in good stead now, since he couldn't focus on the dials and frequency adjusters and couldn't remember what frequency or code he needed to summon emergency aid anyway. He switched the set on and reached for the mike, his hand missing its mark as he tried to focus. Grasping it on the second attempt, he braced himself against the table edge and ignored the way the room spun around him. Get help, his weary brain reminded him, Hog would come and get them, the guys would come for them. He fought the waves of pain from his throbbing head and dredged up a number and a form of words from somewhere in his melting brain. At first no sound came from his parched throat, he could hear the hiss of empty air from the radio. He swayed against the table, swallowed and managed to rasp out something with no idea if anyone could hear him. Automatically he disconnected, his training coming back to him. He was at the limits of his endurance but he couldn't let go just yet. Water, he thought. Must get water for Mulder. He found his way back into the bunkroom, leaning heavily on the walls as he went. The room swam blurrily before him and through a haze of red sparkles he saw Mulder try to reach him as he whispered:

"Radioed out. Don't know if heard. Haven't looked for water yet, can't see too well..." and let the blackness take him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder saw Skinner stagger into the room and realized how ill he was. He was levering himself up off the camp bed when Skinner collapsed. His injured ankle was forgotten as he flung himself down at Skinner's side, his heart palpitating in panic. He touched his hand to Skinner's brow and winced as he felt the burning skin. Dry and burning. He began to realize what had happened. Of course, walking for nearly 7 hours in the stifling heat, sweating all the while, anyone would get dehydrated. And he'd been carrying a 170lb man... Why hadn't he made sure he drank enough water? Even as he pondered on this, Mulder knew exactly what Skinner had done. How many times had he passed Skinner the water bottle and it had been so quickly returned? Skinner had been depriving himself so that Mulder was okay.

Panic surged through him, anger at himself and at Skinner. Damn the man! How could he have knowingly endangered himself? What gave him the right to decide that Mulder's safety came first? How could Mulder himself have been so blind to Skinner's condition? The hot tears spilling from his eyes, Mulder tried to calm himself, to think what he should do, other than take his unconscious boss in his arms, which was what he wanted to do right now. He eased his boss into a more comfortable position. Skinner's eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. Mulder tried desperately to remember what little first aid he knew (the disadvantage of having a doctor for a partner was that he tended not to worry about needing to know that stuff), surely his cursed eidetic memory could dredge up something he'd read about heat exhaustion and dehydration... All he could remember was that you had to cool the person and replenish their body fluids, but only very slowly. Too much too soon was as dangerous as the lack had been - especially cooling someone down too suddenly. He recalled reading that turning a cold shower on someone in this condition could be such a shock to the system the patient could die. Oh God, what a responsibility!

  
"You can't die, Walter, not when I've just learned how much I need you... not when I've just realized that I lo..."

He heard himself call his boss "Walter" and realized that he'd been thinking of him that way for some time now. When Walter had called him "Fox" back at the ledge, he'd thought it was a way of rousing him out of his exhausted stupor... what if it hadn't been that at all? Now was not the time for emotional outbursts - he must be strong for Walter now. Help was on its way (he hoped) and there was heat and light and food and water here somewhere. He had to get moving...

Moving was not exactly easy though. He'd been kneeling at Skinner's side and now his injured ankle had stiffened again and he couldn't work out how to stand up, let alone walk anywhere. He dragged himself over to the metal bunks and used the frame to haul himself upright. Gingerly, he tested his ankle. The shooting pain told him he couldn't put any weight on it. By leaning against the wall he managed to hop as far as the next room, biting his lip against the discomfort. The relief of finding a broom he could upend and use as a crutch was out of all proportion to the difference it made. Hobbling was still excruciating, and he could picture himself looking like a less-than-elegant Long John Silver, but he was still mightily pleased with the arrangement. He also found a large canvas bag he could sling around his neck to hold the various supplies he hoped to gather.

Exploring further, he found a storeroom that had supplies of dried food and water purification tablets, which he stowed in his bag, and a locked medicine chest, which he hauled back into the bunk-room with difficulty, balancing on his makeshift crutch as he limped along. Every effort took so long. Frustration with his own awkwardness made him even less agile and he needed to be efficient for Walter now... Slamming his crutch against a door that swung shut in his face, he took a deep breath and pushed it open again. He found the radio and looked at it dubiously - there was no way he would know where to begin transmitting with this. He just hoped that Skinner had been able to make contact with someone who could help them. Lurching from gloom to hope, he laughed aloud when in the back yard he found an underground water-tank with a crude manual pump to draw up the water. It took him an age, but he filled a plastic container and dragged that back too. Maybe, just maybe, he could take care of Skinner long enough for help to arrive.

Back at Skinner's side he had to acknowledge that there was no way he would be able to manoeuvre the big man onto one of the canvas beds. He'd better try and make him comfortable here on the floor. At least there were far fewer insects here on the mountain ridge and the air was a bit fresher. Another delay as he hobbled painfully out to Skinner's pack and lugged it back inside. He flung the carefully packed contents out onto the floor and sorted out a few things. There were medical supplies he could use and matches, and some dry socks and underwear he couldn't wait to change into. Looking at the mess he'd made of Skinner's orderly supplies he sighed. We're so different, Skinner and I, it's no wonder we clash over so much. He looked over at his boss and for a horrible moment thought he'd stopped breathing. Crawling over he stared at Skinner until he saw the shallow rise and fall of the massive chest. He found he was shaking with shock and felt suddenly shivery. The last thing Walter needed was for him to give way now. Walter might be breathing but he didn't look good and he was still burning up. Mulder had no idea how much time had passed since Skinner's collapse, but he needed help urgently. He needed Mulder to get going and fast.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Moving every item separately and crawling or limping around the room was a nightmare, but finally he had a bed of sorts organized. A thick layer of blankets on the floor, in lieu of a mattress with more blankets to cover them as night fell (he had no expectation of help arriving before morning at the earliest and he suspected it might get quite cold up here after dark). He also suspended Skinner's trusty mosquito net from a hook in the ceiling, its edges weighted down with food cans from the storeroom. Mulder was quite proud of himself, as he surveyed the room, but he didn't linger over his achievements. He knelt beside Skinner again and thought about the best way to move him the few feet to the 'tent'. In the end he carefully rolled Skinner onto a blanket and was able to pull that inside the netting and settle him on the 'bed'. It had taken too long. Skinner's breathing was barely perceptible. He was slipping into unconsciousness. I have to start and cool him down, Mulder fretted, but slowly. Just undressing him won't be enough - it's still as hot as hell, even up here. I guess I need to bring a bowl of water and sponge him down or something... That took an age to achieve too... he slopped most of the water over the sides of the bowl, until he remembered the plastic container he'd filled at the pump and re-filled the bowl from that. He added a couple of the purification tablets to the container.

By the time the sun set they were both as comfortable as he could make them under the insect-proof canopy. He found the switch for the ceiling fan, which really only stirred up the humid air, though the psychological benefit of seeing the blades circle was something at least. He'd been wrong about the temperature dropping - it was still almost as hot as during the day, and the air was even more still so that every movement felt heavy and exhausting. He lit two kerosene lamps, which attracted some huge moths but enabled him to see how Skinner looked.

In truth, Skinner looked devastatingly beautiful. Mulder was ashamed of himself for thinking such a thing under the circumstances, but it was the simple truth. He'd removed Skinner's boots and socks and peeled off the green fatigues, leaving him in just his boxers. They were the same drab olive as the fatigues, as if Skinner had gone back into full Marine mode for this expedition (a thought that made Mulder more than a little hot under the collar). It had taken all his concentration to strip Walter and not allow it to become an erotic act. Only the sight of this beautiful man so still and helpless had brought him back to the seriousness of the situation.

He now sat with his back against the wall and the all-but-naked Skinner cradled in his arms. He was keeping up a continual sequence of bathing his boss's face, chest, stomach and legs with the cool water from the bowl at his side. Skinner looked so vulnerable with his head against Mulder's shoulder and without his armour of business suit and starched shirt, or even his Action Man outfit of earlier. Vulnerable, and somehow fragile without his glasses. Mulder had gently removed those, laying them carefully beside the 'bed'.

"Oh Walter," he whispered, "why did something like this have to happen for me to see how rare you are?"

Skinner's body was still burning, the washcloth was hot after each pass over the muscled torso. Mulder tried to trickle a little water between Skinner's parched lips but it dribbled uselessly away. It was the last straw, he felt so hopeless then that he gave in to his overwrought emotions and just rocked Skinner's bare body in his arms, weeping unashamedly for a long while as he faced his new feelings for this man and his fears for Skinner's safety. When he'd cried himself out he tried just moistening Skinner's cracked lips with a damp cloth and gradually he was able to get a few drops into the other man's mouth. The medicine chest contained an array of medications, including something he thought was an electrolyte solution to add to water, but he wasn't sure enough and in any case he couldn't get enough water into Skinner yet to make it worthwhile. He was so worried about Skinner's temperature. He still felt so hot and Mulder was terrified that he wasn't getting him cooled down fast enough now. Frustration and worry was making him desperate. He longed to sleep, but couldn't think about pausing in his efforts to help Walter. He owed his life to this man.

He looked at the man lying so still in his arms and thought about the long day, during which he'd been cared for by this amazing man with whom he'd fallen hopelessly in love. He pressed the cool, wet washcloth tenderly to Skinner's brow and cheeks and throat, then laid the back of his own hand against the damp skin to feel the temperature. The touch turned into a caress, as he gazed down at the handsome face: the eloquent arch of the dark brows, the sweep of eyelashes a perfect brush-stroke against the smooth brown cheek, the strong curving jaw that fit his hand so well as he stroked, the clear lines of the firm mouth... On an impulse, he tilted Skinner' chin up and bent to kiss the parched lips. They felt heated and dry, roughened by dehydration. He closed his eyes and imagined a kiss in which Walter responded to his touch, moved his lips against the brush of Mulder's, opened his mouth to the passion that Mulder wanted to show him. Overwhelmed by longing, he couldn't stop then, raining soft, desperate kisses all over Skinner's brow and eyelids and cheeks and nose, and murmuring:

"Don't die, don't die - stay with me."

He got control of himself again and went back to wiping the cooling cloth over Skinner's bare skin. He had learned this man's body by heart over the past few hours. He knew the silk of the inner arm, where the veins ran blue under the paler skin, knew the soft elliptical hollow of the navel, the corded muscles of the thighs, the scars on stomach and legs, knew the way the sheen of the smooth pectorals showed though the dark curling hair. He knew how it felt to hold this man in his arms, he knew how much more he wanted...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Despite his determination to stay awake, he must have dozed off because something jolted him awake suddenly. Groggy with pain and sleep he couldn't work out what was happening, until he realized that the strobing light and deafening crashes were from a thunderstorm raging over the mountain-top. The rain was lashing against the building and lightning flooded the room blue-white at frequent intervals. They were at the centre of a violent storm and Mulder knew no rescue would be arriving in the midst of this. Despite the crash of the thunder he knew it was not that which had roused him, it was a whisper of sound coming from Skinner's lips. Skinner still had his eyes closed but was trying to speak. Mulder bent low, trying to catch the words. He could hear "Mulder" and "water" repeated over and over. He put the steel cup to Skinner's lips and watched the dry mouth working to swallow a tiny sip. He dipped his fingers in the water and brushed them over Skinner's lips. Skinner worked his mouth a little more and managed to swallow another sip from the cup. Mulder couldn't tell if he were fully conscious or not, but kept murmuring soothing, meaningless words as if by instinct. As his parched throat was eased, Skinner began to speak more and it was soon clear that he was far away in that other jungle that had nearly taken his life 28 years ago.

Mulder listened, fascinated and horrified, as Skinner relived the nightmare of that time and place, sometimes calling out to people he seemed to see, sometimes whispering tense commands, sometimes talking to his family as in a letter. Once or twice he began to weep uncontrollably, shaking and turning his face against Mulder's chest. Mulder could only hold him tight, trying to give the other man a sense of safety that would bring him out of the agony he seemed lost in. He wrapped his arms around Walter, stroking his bare back and rocking him. The storm rumbled and lashed outside. After a while, Skinner seemed to quieten again and his slow breathing sounded more like a man merely asleep than in delirium. Mulder continued to tenderly nuzzle the smooth scalp and kiss the flickering eyelids. He had lulled them both into a dreamlike state. Letting his mind drift on an idyllic future in which he and Walter... he realised that the storm had at last moved away. The relief at knowing help might now be on its way was wrenched from Mulder in a long weary sigh. He began to hum as he rocked Walter in his arms, trying to keep himself awake. The ceiling fan turned its languid circles, beating at the humid air and the cicadas clicked again outside the windows in the aftermath of the tempest. He freshened the water in the bowl and began bathing Walter's thighs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some time later, Skinner's soft voice again roused Mulder, this time from a vivid dream. The voice was so hushed Mulder had to strain to hear the words, but when he did, he blushed. Skinner was talking about him, calling him 'Fox', using the most tender words, full of worry and love, praying for him - just the way Mulder himself had been murmuring to Skinner all through this long night. He'd be embarrassed if he knew I was hearing this, he thought, even as his heart leapt to hear his straighter-than-straight boss whisper about his 'beautiful Fox'. For the first time he considered the amazing possibility that Walter cared about him more than he'd known. But will we ever be able to say what we feel to each other? He wondered.

When Skinner awoke the next time he was weak but no longer delirious. Mulder saw the brown eyes open and peered anxiously at his boss. Huskily, Skinner got right to the heart of the matter:

"No help yet?" Mulder held the cup of water for him and felt the immense relief of seeing him drink more than just a mouthful.

"Not yet, no, but I didn't know how to work the radio and there's been a terrific storm and nothing could have reached us in that and..."

"Okay, Mulder, I get the picture. How long have I been out of it?"

His eyes were closing again and Mulder could see Skinner was slipping back into sleep. He gave him a brief edited version of his hours of unconsciousness, saying only that he had called out some names, but none that Mulder recognized. Skinner's eyes opened wide again and he gave Mulder a searching look. Mulder wanted to fold his arms around the other man, kiss him and tell him everything, but he did none of these things. After Walter had fallen asleep again, he gently moved the heavy head to rest against his own chest and brushed his lips over the satiny skin. This might be his last chance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At first light they heard the beat of a helicopter and soon the clatter and din was right overhead. Mulder heaved himself stiffly to his feet and tottered over to the window. A very brisk Dana Scully was alighting from the Medevac 'copter, along with two paramedics.

"Uh oh! We're in big trouble now, sir. She Who Must Be Obeyed has arrived."

"That hardly seems a valid nickname when you spend all your time ignoring her good advice."

Skinner's voice was very weak, but he managed a grin. Mulder had the grace to look sheepish, but grinned back:

"Well she makes me pay afterwards, you know."

"I don't think I do want to know, Mulder."

Skinner was still dressed in only his boxers and looked more than a little uncomfortable about it. He could barely sit up on his own, there was no way to get him dressed before Scully reached them... Mulder swathed a blanket around the big man, who shakily pulled it around himself then put out a hand to Mulder.

"Thanks, Mulder... for everything." The dark eyes held his with gentle intensity. Mulder felt a lump in his throat.

"You're thanking me?..."

Before he could go on Scully and the paramedics arrived.

"Mulder, Sir... are you ready to go?" Scully took in the ragged and half-naked state of the pair of them and scanned the room with a frown. Skinner looked a lot worse than she'd anticipated and Mulder looked... well Mulder looked like Mulder always looked when she rescued him from one of his scrapes... like a naughty little boy, not at all convinced of his own awfulness.

"Well, I was still hoping to get a sample of that ectoplasm, Scully... "

He ducked as Skinner glared and Scully made to cuff him. The paramedics stepped in and both men were strapped into stretchers and carried out to the helicopter. As they were loaded on board Scully started on Mulder. Contritely, he answered all of her questions and bore her scolding. She had a few choice words for Skinner too, when she heard how he had risked his own life to keep Mulder alive, but they were softly voiced, the gratitude clear to hear. The paramedics looked on in amusement at these three who seemed so close and yet so exasperated with each other.

As the helicopter lifted off from the mountain ridge, Skinner managed to sit up and touched Scully's arm to get her attention:

"Why are you here, Dana? I'm sure I wasn't compos mentis enough to radio the Bureau, let alone mention your name." Dana smiled at her boss and explained:

"You used your old call sign, from your unit in Vietnam. Someone in Emergency Dispatch recognized the code and patched it through to the Bureau as routine. Once we checked the map references you gave us we realized who it must be. I knew where Mulder had been itching to go and the call sign tied you to this locale too... The Dispatcher filled me in on some of the ops that special unit of yours carried out. You had some lucky escapes, sir."

Mulder, who had been listening, fascinated, to all this, looked over at Skinner.

"You'll have to tell me about those sometime, sir."

Skinner met the shining hazel eyes with his own dark gaze and said quietly,

"Maybe I will."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

* * *

 

Replay 2: Another Country  
By Sergeeva and Xanthe (78KB - Nov.1998)  
CATEGORY: SRA, Slash (Mulder/Skinner UST)  
RATING: PG13 for language and m/m interaction.  
SPOILERS: None  
SUMMARY: Mulder finds out more about Skinner's past  
THANKS: To Hal for her excellent beta-reading talents and to all our friends for nagging us to finish this.  
DISCLAIMER: The characters of the X-Files are the creation and property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Broadcasting and the talented actors who bring them to life. No infringement of copyright is intended and no money is being made from their use here. The other characters portrayed herein are the creation of the authors and may be used only with permission.  
AUTHORS' NOTES: This is the second part of the Replay trilogy. You should read Replay 1:Falling to get the story so far. The trilogy is completed with Replay 3: Warm Thoughts.  
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated and answered. Write to the authors at: and 

* * *

Mulder flicked his way through another magazine, and sighed. He had only been here six hours and already he was frustrated by the regime, the enforced bed rest, the way the medical staff all seemed to be on some sort of power trip.

Worst of all was the fact that they wouldn't let him see Skinner. They wouldn't even tell him how his boss was, or where he was. And where was Scully? After a brief visit she had disappeared and he hadn't set eyes on her since. Mulder wondered if she was punishing him for taking off in the way he had, or whether something more important had claimed her attention. More important... like the condition of Walter Skinner. The man who had saved his life with such calm assurance, the man who had rescued him from the jungle and never once reproached him for his foolishness in going there in the first place. The man he had come to realize that he loved.

 Mulder got up and hobbled out of his room, ignoring the protests of the nurse.

"Skinner. I have to find him. Tell me where he is." he demanded, limping off up the corridor, looking in all the rooms and generally making a fuss.

"Scully!" he called. "Scully!" There was no reply. The nurse ran to fetch someone else, and Mulder took advantage of the situation, taking the elevator up a level, getting out, and looking around. He saw the back of a red head disappear into the ICU and followed it, his mind racing frantically. Intensive care? Why? Skinner had been all right - weak but all right. He was sure of it.

"Mulder - what are you...?" He pushed past Scully, charging into ICU, forgetting about his injured ankle, and then stopping, shock stabbing into his breast. Skinner was unconscious, attached to half a dozen monitors, his face deathly pale under the honeyed tan he had acquired on his vacation.

"What happened to him?" Mulder felt his knees weakening, and he fell against Scully. She managed to help him into a chair by the bed.

"He was badly dehydrated. His condition is serious. He deteriorated as soon as we arrived," Scully told him gently, her eyes grave and concerned. Mulder knew what she was thinking: it was his fault that Skinner had ended up like this. She didn't realize that his distress was more than simply guilty concern - much more.

"He's not in any danger though? I mean he'll be all right?" Mulder gasped weakly, unable to take all this in.

"They don't know," Scully whispered.

"But he was sitting up. Talking to us." Mulder protested.

"I know. But that doesn't mean he was well," Scully told him. "He's strong, Mulder - nobody else could have survived what he did. All those hours without water, carrying...I mean, it was a huge strain on him. You did all the right things when you got to the weather station but he's very weak."

"No." Mulder reached out and fingered the sheet next to Skinner's hand. "He's always so strong, Scully. Never weak. He saved my life."

"Mulder, please. We didn't want to tell you in case you reacted like this. Don't blame yourself," Scully told him.

"Oh yeah! And who else should we blame? The government? Aliens? Cancer man?" Mulder asked her bitterly. "No, Scully. This one's down to me. I can't go out there digging for the truth and not accept a few home truths. If he dies..."

"Like I said, he's strong," Scully told him desperately.

"He'll be fine. Now let's get you back to bed..."

"NO!"

Scully looked shocked by the fierce tone of Mulder's voice.

"I'm staying here until he gets better. I'm not leaving his side until that happens, Scully. They'll have to scrape me away with a knife before I leave here. I'm his goddamn limpet."

"All right. All right." Scully said in a soothing tone, clearly assuming that his hysteria was the result of his recent experiences, and probable concussion. "I'll bring you a blanket."

Mulder sat beside Skinner's bed for days, moving only to go to the bathroom, sleeping in the chair next to his boss's bed. He grew to know every piece of Skinner's unconscious features; the smooth skin taut over the high cheekbones, the soft corners of the firm mouth, gently relaxed in repose, the cleft in the strong chin, the blunt broad nose which gave him such a boyish profile...

At night, when it was dark, and nobody was watching, Mulder allowed his fingers to touch Skinner's hand, fingering the other man's palm gently, tracing little circles on it. How had he come to this? He was no stranger to desire, for both women and men, and was accustomed to acting on it. Seldom was he rebuffed, seldom did he suffer, unrequited. But this was more than just lust and its object was more than just a man. Mulder was in love with his boss and had no idea what to do. Were Skinner's delirious mumblings in the jungle real or from Mulder's own fever-dream?

Mulder felt a slight pressure on his fingers, and looked down in alarm. Skinner's eyes were open, and he was staring at his subordinate.

"Fox?" he murmured.

"It's all right. You're all right. I'm here," he whispered, a feeling of great relief sweeping over him. He knew he should withdraw his hand from Skinner's but he couldn't. He waited for the other man to do so but Skinner didn't either. Still, he had only just awakened - he probably didn't even realize what was happening, Mulder thought to himself, knowing he was taking advantage of that but not caring. They sat there for a moment, in unembarrassed silence, hand in hand, until Skinner shifted and cried out.

"Water," he murmured.

"You've had a gallon of the stuff," Mulder told him.

"Several gallons. They've been pouring it into you non-stop for hours. That's what the drips are for. Still, if you want more..."

He got up and poured Skinner a glass from a jug, putting his hand under Skinner's head, and bringing the glass to the other man's lips.

"Mr. Mulder!" The ICU nurse came running up in alarm. "Is he awake? You should have called us."

Mulder felt himself pushed out of the way as a team of medical staff descended to examine their patient.

Skinner was over the worst and was soon moved downstairs. Mulder followed him there, taking up residence in yet another bedside chair.

"This really isn't necessary, Mulder," Skinner sighed upon realizing after fifteen hours that Mulder's company was to be a permanent arrangement. "I'm sure you have your own bed to go to."

"Nope. I'm fine - they discharged me yesterday. Or rather I discharged myself but they didn't kick up much of a fuss so I presume that means I'm fine. You, on the other hand, are not. I've been reading up about severe dehydration - it's serious, sir. And as you're here because of me, I have to make sure..."

"What?" Skinner frowned. "Oh god, Mulder, you're on some sort of guilt-trip? Please don't. I absolve you. There - you can go home now."

"Not until you're back at work." Mulder grinned. "I made a promise to myself. And whatever way you look at it, it's definitely my fault and you did save my life, so I have to make sure that you're OK."

"I am. I'm fine," Skinner murmured wearily. "You can see that I'm fine now."

"No you're not," Mulder told him. "I can tell."

"How?" Skinner sighed.

"Because it's been fully three days since you regained consciousness and you still haven't chewed me out for being in that goddamn jungle in the first place."

"I was waiting," Skinner told him, "until we got back to work. Then I want a full report on exactly why this unauthorised jungle mission was necessary. I can only guess at the expense sheet that'll be awaiting me - helicopter rescues from remote terrains?" He raised an inquiring eyebrow. "To say nothing of the way you seem to have alienated an entire populace during your brief time there. I'm just relieved I didn't have to fix a major international incident."

"Major international incidents - I could cause one of them." Mulder grinned "I'll try harder next time, give you a real problem to fix, not just hauling damn fool agents to safety through jungles for hours on end. That hardly taxed you at all."

Mulder paused, noticing the distant, saddened look in Skinner's eyes, as if he were remembering something else. Skinner shrugged, shook his head ruefully, gave a slight smile. Duly encouraged, Mulder continued.

"And I knew you were on vacation. Don't tell me you were enjoying lying on the beach. And now you have something to hold over my head. Think of it as a gift."

"Thank you, Mulder. So thoughtful. As always." Skinner smiled again and Mulder beamed back, basking in such idle banter with this man whom he liked, admired, and wanted so much. "Now, why don't you go home and get some proper rest?" Skinner suggested.

"No way. I told you... " Mulder began. Skinner held up his hand.

"Really, Mulder, I insist. It's not so much the rest as perhaps, how shall I put this, you need to take a shower?" He wrinkled up his nose slightly.

"Oh." Mulder grinned again, sniffing under his armpits. He did smell. It would be nice to sleep on his nice hard couch for a couple of hours instead of one of these damn chairs.

"All right. But I'll be back tomorrow to check up on you," he warned.

"Mulder you've got it all wrong," Skinner told him. Mulder gave him an inquiring look.

"When you save somebody's life, legend has it that their life then belongs to you - not the other way round. I don't remember ever reading anywhere that the person who does the saving has to be pestered, annoyed and generally clucked over in this fashion."

Mulder shrugged, and waved cheerfully as he left. "See you tomorrow," he stated firmly.

His smile faded as soon as he left the room. Well of course his life belonged to Skinner now. It belonged to him because he had fallen in love with the man. Yet he had no expectation that his feelings would ever, could ever be reciprocated. It's not going to happen, Mulder, he thought to himself. It is just so not going to happen.

He took a long, hot shower, although he suspected that a cold one might be of more use to him, the way he was feeling right now, then he threw himself down on his couch, naked, tormenting himself with memories of the jungle. Memories of Walter Skinner lying ill and delirious in his arms, whispering his name. It wasn't long before his cock was swollen and erect, and he couldn't stop himself caressing his own body, while imagining it was Skinner who was caressing him. He could see his boss's dark eyes, feel his tongue lick against his thigh... Mulder groaned with relief as he came, wiped himself with a towel and then lay back again, falling asleep and dreaming of long nights spent wrapped up safe next to a sensuous, bald-headed, older man.

He slept for far longer than he had intended, and woke up angry with himself. So much for his promise to take care of his boss until he returned to work. When he got to the hospital there was nobody in Skinner's room. Mulder ran up the corridor, worried that his boss had suffered a relapse and been returned to ICU.

"Nurse, where's Walter Skinner? Is he all right?" he demanded.

The nurse glanced at him, and frowned.

"Walter Skinner? Oh yes - he discharged himself a couple of hours ago," she told him with a pleasant smile.

"He did what?" Mulder was astounded.

"Yes, we weren't exactly happy about it either but he wouldn't be told. Is he always this...how shall I put it...assertive?" the nurse asked.

"Oh yeah," Mulder told her. "You should try working with him. Assertive doesn't begin to describe it sometimes."

~~~~~~~~

He rang the doorbell twice, three times in his impatient frustration. Finally the door was opened.

"Mulder?" Skinner peered at him. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Seeing if you're all right. Honestly, sir, what were you thinking of checking out like that?"

"You did it," Skinner retorted amiably enough.

"That's just me. I expected you to be more sensible. You usually are."

"Mulder, I don't like hospitals."

Skinner leaned against the door, breathing heavily. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, and Mulder realized with a pang that he had lost some weight - the tee shirt hung on him.

"Well neither do I. I've spent too much time in the damn places." Mulder pushed past his boss and into the hallway. Skinner sighed.

"Me too," Skinner said softly. "Far too much time."

Mulder swung round.

"Vietnam?" he asked. Skinner nodded. "You were in hospital for a long time after..."

"Yes. Months." Skinner shrugged. "I grew to loathe the place."

"You never talk about your time in Vietnam much."

Skinner shrugged again. "Not much to say. I went there, I died, I came back," he said.

"Yeah, right." Mulder shook his head. "It was a major life experience for you. I'm sure you've got a lot of stories to tell," he said.

"No. I rarely ever..." Skinner paused, his face looking paler than ever, his hand gripping the door frame tightly.

"I knew it! I knew you weren't better." Mulder came forward, and caught the other man just as his legs buckled, helping him over to the couch.

"I'm fine. I just need to rest. I can do that just as well at home as I could in the hospital," Skinner murmured.

"Maybe. But you can't cook, get groceries - all that stuff. That's what I'm here for," Mulder told him.

"You're staying?" Skinner asked incredulously.

"Yeah. I'm staying." Mulder grinned. "And don't argue - I don't take 'no' for an answer as easily as the hospital did."

"I'm in no doubt about that," Skinner said. "I've worked with you for five years. In all that time you've never taken a 'no' from me as answer. Or a 'no' from anyone else for that matter."

"So you know there's no point arguing then." Mulder grinned. "Now, you just sit still. I'm going to phone the hospital to make sure there's no special medication that you need, and then I'll fix you something to eat. Have you had lunch yet?"

"No." Skinner shook his head. "I didn't think I'd bother with it. I thought I'd just take a nap, read some, then..."

"You have to eat." Mulder protested. "You're all skin and bone."

"I'm hardly that." Skinner glanced down at his large frame. "Damn but this is worse than being back at the hospital."

"Anytime you want me to take you back there you just say." Mulder stood over his boss with folded arms.

"No," Skinner sighed. "I don't want to go back there."

"Then accept." Mulder grinned. "I told you - I'll be in your hair until you go back to work. Oops, sorry, wrong expression."

"Oh god." Skinner put his head back and groaned. "I suppose there is no point ordering you to leave me alone?"

"None," Mulder told him. "I'm immune to orders. You should know that by now."

Skinner's head fell back against the sofa cushions and he smiled even as his eyes closed.

"I'm too tired to argue, Mulder."

Mulder was kneeling beside him in an instant, worry drawing his face into a frown. He reached out a concerned hand but stopped short of actually touching his boss. Skinner, sensing him still there, opened his eyes again and sighed:

"Really, I'm OK - it's just tiredness. You don't need to stay."

"Tough guy, huh? Well, you're stuck with me for the moment. I'm going to call the hospital for instructions then heat you some soup - you can at least manage that. Then you can sleep."

He went off towards the kitchen, pulling his cell-phone from his pocket as he went. Skinner shook his head resignedly and let his eyes close again, listening to Mulder opening cupboards while he talked to the doctor.

He couldn't imagine why Mulder seemed so concerned about him all of a sudden. They'd formed a good working relationship at long last, Mulder was outrageous and insubordinate, Skinner chewed him out, Mulder proved he was right all along and Skinner somehow got the unbelievable case reports passed by the upper echelons of the Bureau... but they'd never been exactly friends. Skinner could feel himself slipping into drowsiness. There was something soothing about the sounds of another person pottering in the next room.

He started to think about those hours in the jungle: how well Mulder had handled the awkward situation, how, for all his annoying chit-chat, Mulder was actually good company. Skinner was sinking further towards sleep when Mulder came noisily back into the room, muttering to himself and making a shopping list.

"The doctor says you need to eat regular, light meals, build up your strength with high -quality nourishment. There's nothing in your cupboards, so I'm going out to stock up. What on earth do you live on?"

"I like to buy fresh when I can, I don't use a lot of convenience foods."

"I might have known you'd be a health-freak - don't you have any vices?"

"You don't want to know, Mulder..."

A brief expression of intrigued amusement flitted across Mulder's face and he laughed.

"Don't be so sure... Anyway, I'll be as quick as I can, don't indulge in too many of those hidden vices while I'm gone." With that, he gave Skinner an evil grin and headed for the front door.

Skinner shook his head in despair and called after him. "Take the key that's on the table by the door."

He might as well accept, for the moment, that Mulder was going to be around.

When Mulder got back, his arms loaded with grocery sacks, the late afternoon light had faded and the house looked welcoming on the quiet road with the street lights coming on. He felt happy and domesticated, bringing food for the man he loved, settling in to look after him. Remembering how weary Skinner had looked, the worry came flooding back, and Mulder quickly dumped the bags of provisions and went into the living room.

A fire flickered in the hearth and music, something haunting and classical, was playing quietly. Skinner was stretched out on the sofa, fast asleep.

Reaching to turn a lamp on, Mulder stopped short, entranced by the sight before him. Skinner was lying on his side, one arm curled under his head, his face thrown into soft relief by the firelight. Mulder deliberately held his breath as he knelt to study the sleeping man, afraid his yearning would reveal itself in a moan.

His boss looked so peaceful, his face all soft curves, blushed by the warm light, his chest gently rising and falling, the long lean body relaxed, his bare feet overhanging the end of the sofa.

Mulder let out a shuddering sigh as his feelings threatened to overwhelm him. Love, desire, admiration, gratitude, anxiety all churned within him. He was moving to touch a bare tanned ankle when Skinner stirred and cleared his throat. Grateful for the few seconds grace while he turned back to face his boss, Mulder composed his face and heard himself burbling:

"You lit the fire - I would have done that. You were dead to the world just now, sleeping like a baby. I'll start dinner, do you need...?"

He trailed off as he met Skinner's dark eyes and in the background a lyrical contralto voice filled the room with Bach's heartbreaking aria: Erbarme dich, Mein Gott... Have mercy on me, Oh Lord...The two men locked gazes for a long moment until Skinner broke the intensity with a smile:

"I feel better for that sleep. What did you get for dinner?"

Mulder released the breath he'd been holding for hours, and tried to drag his senses away from Skinner's warm, flushed skin, from the muscled thigh so near his hand, from the ache in his own groin...

"One of everything. I'm no Martha Stewart, though."

Skinner stood up and chuckled.

"Well it happens to be something I enjoy, so let's see what you've brought me to work with."

In the end they compromised. Mulder persuaded Skinner to sit on a stool and direct operations while he did the actual work. He let Skinner tease him about his ignorance and ineptitude and found he was really enjoying the camaraderie as he queried every instruction and Skinner patiently explained...

"Now the carrots - no, they'll have to be thinner than that."

"Why does it matter...?"

"They need to be about the same size as the other things so they all cook at the same rate."

"This looks disgusting! How much ginger did you say?"

"You'll see, with the soy sauce and coriander it'll make a great flavour."

"Why mush up the chicken in this gloop, why not just toss everything in together?"

"Because it's a marinade - it'll flavour and tenderize the meat first... look, just trust me!"

When they finally sat down to a surprisingly delicious meal, Mulder felt absurdly happy and pleased with life. As much as he tried to remind himself that this was only for a day or two, until Skinner got his strength back, he knew that wouldn't be enough for him. He wanted to be with this man, wanted to share hundreds of evenings like this. He wanted to relive that moment when he'd looked into the deep brown eyes and this time take it further: this time lean in and kiss that strong curving mouth, wrap his arms around that gorgeous body...

He wanted to take Skinner's hand now and lead him up to bed, slowly undress him and make tender adoring love to him all night. But he could see the shadows under Skinner's eyes again, see how much the evening's activities had taken out of him. Skinner was still not at full strength, even if he wouldn't admit it.

"Bed for you, sir," he teased, resolutely ignoring the way he wanted to say those words...

It was a sign of Skinner's exhaustion that he didn't protest when Mulder abandoned the dirty dishes and pushed him upstairs. He showed Mulder the guestroom and then retreated to his own room, refusing any further help.

"For God's sake, Mulder, I'm not an invalid, I can brush my own teeth."

Mulder smiled fondly at the growl, taking it for a compliment. Skinner was relaxed enough around him to let his normal good manners slip once in a while.

Something woke Mulder in the early hours, an unidentified sound in an unfamiliar house. He got up, used the bathroom and knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again now. He wandered down to the living room, looking for something to read.

They say you can tell a lot about a man from his bookshelves, thought Mulder, well I want to know everything about this man. Skinner's bookshelves were certainly revealing: political history, law, serious biographies - all to be expected, Plato, Machiavelli, Thoreau - not so surprising, but Kafka, Gogol, Racine, Milton, Homer... they were a revelation. And poetry: he drew a volume of Pablo Neruda from the shelves and opened it at random.

"My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.  
I love what I do not have. You are so far."

All too ready to feel the sadness, he turned away and continued his exploration of the room. The music collection was equally eclectic: Mahler and Mozart, Beiderbecke and lots of Bach, rock 'n roll, jazz, blues, classical... Mulder was processing all this new information about his boss as he wandered around the room fingering a tiny Buddha carved in some smooth veined stone, a split geode, glittering darkly inside the rough unremarkable shell, a dark wood box, inlaid with intricate brass scrolling and inside a bundle of faded letters and two medals. One, the Purple Heart, he'd seen before, but the second was the Bronze Star. Mulder knew it was awarded for great gallantry in battle. He turned the metal star on its striped silk ribbon over and read: 2nd Lt. Walter Sergei Skinner, III MAF Vietnam 1969.

He held the cold metal in his hand for a moment, before tucking it back under the letters and closing the box. He longed to know the stories behind all these unique objects, to know all the stories behind this unique man who occupied his thoughts and feelings so powerfully. Finding he was still holding the Pablo Neruda, he decided to take it back to bed to read.

At the head of the stairs, he glanced left, to Skinner's room and saw that the door was ajar. I should check on him, he argued with himself. It's what I'm here for, just to make sure he's OK... He pushed open the door and stood transfixed.

Skinner was sprawled, more out of than under the bedclothes, the bright moonlight slanting over his bare chest and shoulders, one long leg emerging from the rumpled sheets. Mulder took two steps closer.

As he paused, Skinner shifted in his sleep, settling onto his back and revealing the smooth concave of his lean stomach and the waistband of white boxers sitting low on his hips. Mulder moved closer still, close enough to touch the bareness of Skinner's exposed torso. He kept his hands clenched by his sides though, struggling against the desire that rampaged through him.

Swaying against the edge of the bed, he bit back a groan and sank to his knees. The moonlight shafted across Skinner's all-but-naked body, contouring the bald head, the planes of cheek and jaw, the mass of the broad shoulders, the interlaced muscles over ribs and abdomen, the long curve of the thigh, and silvering the tanned skin. Soft shadows lay in the hollows of temple and eye-socket, in the dip of the navel and where the leg of the boxer shorts gaped a little.

Mulder's gaze caressed each beautiful spot and it took every ounce of his willpower not to lean in and kiss a fragile eyelid, or brush his fingers over a puckered nipple, or slide his hand inside the leg of those boxers... He wanted to, he wanted to wake Skinner with kisses and pin him to the bed with hot, demanding caresses. Even now he was arched over Skinner's sleeping face, his mouth a bare few inches away from the other man's lips, his hands fitted to the curve of the smooth skull, an aching parenthesis, yearning but not touching.

He drew back just in time as Skinner awakened, looking sleepily confused to see Mulder hovering over him.

"Whaa...?"

"Your breathing sounded odd, I was worried." Mulder improvised wildly.

"You could hear my breathing from...?" Skinner glanced in the direction of Mulder's room, then seemed to think better of it and made a show of heaving himself up in the bed.

"What's this?" He unearthed the volume of poems from amongst the tangled bedding. "Ah... Neruda, good choice..." He closed his eyes, speaking from memory:

"How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,

My savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running."

He grinned, wryly and Mulder's heart flipped in his chest. Despite his good humour, Skinner still looked very pale and drawn and Mulder felt guilty for having disturbed his sleep. He put a gentle hand on his boss's shoulder and persuaded him back onto the pillows.

"You need your sleep, sir. I was just on the wander looking for something to read."

The formality of the 'sir' helped a little in pushing the desire back under a semblance of control. He picked up the poems and moved away from the bed.

"There's more to choose from in my study. Second door on the right. 'Night Mulder..."

Sitting in Skinner's study, in Skinner's old, polished leather chair, Mulder felt the comfort of an illusory closeness to the man he loved. He looked around at the walls lined with shelves, crammed with books, pictures, several football trophies, a worn baseball mitt, a sprig of dried autumn leaves tucked into a pewter tankard that seemed to be a prize for a triathlon event, a harmonica, an old gold pocket watch with "To Anton, from your loving wife, Anna" engraved inside the case... He felt incredibly moved to see these glimpses of Skinner's private life, even if he didn't know what their significance was.

He began to scan the shelves looking at the book titles, when he found an old, leather-bound album in amongst the military campaign histories. He hesitated briefly before opening it, but his desperation to connect with the real Walter Skinner drove him on. The album was the old-fashioned sort with stiff black pages and the photographs held in place by little paper corners. Someone, Skinner presumably, had written captions under the pictures in white ink. "Saigon, Summer 1970, Maggs, Jacko, Fisher and Buttwipe". It was from Skinner's days in the Marines, they must have been on R&R. Mulder turned the page: "Hua Binh, Thanksgiving 1970. Jacko, Hog and I carve the turkey." Two young men in mud-streaked fatigues crouched around a collection of mess tins and beer bottles. A third young man stood behind them, his hands on the shoulders of one of the crouching men. Mulder peered at the faces. The standing Marine was small and wiry, his freckled face looking barely old enough to be out of high school, one of the other two was a solidly-built black man with a wide toothy grin and a beer in his hand. The other was unmistakably the young Walter Skinner.

The familiar broad shoulders and high cheekbones made identification easy. The body was leaner, not so massively muscled as it was now, and the young man had a full head of cropped dark hair, but the quiet grace and air of competence were no surprise. He was balanced on one knee, looking up at the man whose hands rested on his shoulders. His face was concerned, as if he was about to ask the other how he was. One bare brown arm was draped across his leg, the other was hooked around the shoulder of the black man beside him.

Mulder pored over the photograph, his eidetic memory storing details of uniform, insignia, badges of rank. He found many more pictures of Skinner with his unit, some from 1968 where he was in a slightly different uniform, usually standing in some grassy landscape, then many more from 1969 and 1970 always in dense jungle, the same few faces cropping up again and again.

After a while Mulder began to feel he knew these young men: Jacko with his tousled sandy hair and neat build. Big hefty Hog, towering over even the tall Skinner. Maggs with his lopsided grin and garish tatoos. Fisher with wirerims more reminiscent of Skinner and always with a beer in hand. Didja who hardly ever smiled and looked as if he found the whole thing a huge puzzle... In many of the pictures Jacko was standing close to Skinner, leaning against him or sitting between his legs. In the photos where Skinner was absent Jacko would be gazing at the camera with intense concentration and Mulder knew that it had been Skinner taking the picture that time.

There was a story here, he knew. Something connected to that decoration for bravery and to those faded letters in the wooden box. He wondered if Skinner would tell him that story if he asked...

The sound of dishes clattering and the smell of coffee brewing roused Mulder in the morning. He lay still for a moment recalling where he was and why, then clambered out of bed and pulled on his sweat pants. He didn't want Skinner overexerting himself again today: he had in mind a leisurely read of the papers, a light lunch, feeling confident the team of last night could produce another success in the kitchen, and a lot of talking. He dragged on an old sweater and followed the kitchen sounds to find Skinner busy loading the dishwasher with last night's plates and glasses. He looked incredibly handsome in faded ice-blue jeans and a soft white cotton sweater. His face still seemed thin to Mulder though his colour was better.

"The coffee's about brewed - help yourself and you can pour me a cup too. How does ham and eggs sound?"

"Sounds wonderful, but even I can manage to cook those, so you sit down."

Skinner sighed, pointedly.

"I told you, I'm not a complete invalid. I slept, I'm fine. Now read the paper and let me cook."

Mulder rolled his eyes and reluctantly went to sit at the kitchen counter with the sports section. While Skinner expertly cooked the best ham and eggs Mulder had ever tasted, he read out headlines to his boss and kept an eye on how he was holding up. Skinner seemed fine, and ate heartily, to Mulder's satisfaction. He wanted to see those muscles pushing against the starched cotton of the man's shirt when he finally went back to the office. Oh God, how he wanted to see those muscles... Enough of that, he chided himself. My mission today is to get Skinner to talk - about himself, about what a pain I am to him, about that damnfool expedition to look for ectoplasm in the jungle, about how he got to be a lieutenant in a special operations unit at the age of 20. About why a gap-toothed, freckled boy had such an obvious crush on him that you could feel the waves of desire coming off the photograph. About how he would feel knowing that his most troublesome agent is falling so profoundly in love with him that he cannot hide it for much longer...

They did talk, though not about everything that Mulder wanted to know. They discussed the Redskins and their chances in the playoffs, they debated the relative merits of two rival exposes of the CIA recently published. Skinner described the coral reefs of Antigua and Mulder boldly announced his intention to return to his investigation of the ectoplasm in the jungle, enjoying Skinner's incredulous horror and appalled expression at the suggestion that he might like to accompany Mulder again.

Mulder could see that Skinner still tired easily and insisted on his boss staying put on the sofa while he made them lunch. He found he'd already memorized where everything was in the kitchen and could let his mind wander while he prepared their meal. He liked being here, liked spending time with Skinner. He knew he was falling in love with the older man and that it was probably a very stupid thing to do, but the more he saw of the man, the more he admired and desired him.

Over the huge and messy sandwiches that Mulder had made for them, Mulder broached the subject of the photograph album, confessing that he'd found it in Skinner's study and was intrigued by the stories behind the pictures. Skinner gave him a long look:

"It's not something I talk about much."

Like I haven't realized that, thought Mulder.

"I've told you as much as I've told anyone about my experiences there..." He paused, looking down at his hands. Mulder held his breath, hoping he hadn't blown it with his reminder of a grim time in Skinner's past, wondering if Skinner remembered their conversation in the helicopter. Skinner looked up at last, searching his face, trying to discover what Mulder's motive was. Mulder got the distinct impression that Skinner wanted to tell him more but that it was hard for his boss to talk about anything so personal.

Mulder jumped in: "I suppose our recent foray brought a lot of it back?"

"Yes, Mulder. There were... similarities..."

Skinner was far away again, Mulder could see by his unfocused gaze, back to a time and a place Mulder could only imagine. He suddenly hated himself for reminding Skinner of those times just to satisfy his own selfish curiosity.

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to bring up things you'd rather forget."

"It's okay, Mulder. They're always there - you don't ever forget them."

He looked calmly back at Mulder, but Mulder was ashamed of his probing and covered the awkward moment by gathering up the lunch plates and taking them back to the kitchen. He stayed there a while, stowing the salad stuff away in the refrigerator and starting a pot of coffee, giving Skinner time to... what? Recover? Hell, the man had handled Mulder's inept questions perfectly calmly. It was Mulder himself who was unsettled by all this, so obsessed with his boss that he still wanted to pursue this untold story - just not by barging in with ill-timed questions, he told himself. He'd find his own methods of uncovering the truth about those young men with old eyes, of seeking out the story behind that Bronze Star.

When he wandered back into the living room Skinner had dozed off again, sitting where Mulder had left him, his long legs propped up on the low table, his head tipped back against the sofa cushions, snoring softly. Mulder contemplated him for a moment, feeling the now-familiar flood of tender concern. Skinner was still weak, that was clear, but sleep was probably just what he needed. Mulder hoped it was dreamless.

He headed off for Skinner's study again, wondering if he was crossing a line he'd regret, but knowing he'd do it anyway. He didn't actually refuse to tell me about his past, or forbid me to look for myself, he mused. I'm just saving him the pain of recounting something personal and probably traumatic. Yeah, and incorrigible nosiness has nothing to do with it.

He sat in the big leather chair again and pulled the photograph album down from its place on the bookshelves. This time he worked systematically through the pages, peering closely at each picture and each caption. Looking at the man he loved, half the age he himself was now, crouching in mud cleaning his M16, hunched under a poncho in a dripping jungle clearing, standing shirtless and shaven-headed, laughing at something, his teeth a flash of white in his darkly tanned face, a cigarette dangling from his long fingers...

Mulder's eidetic memory was storing away dates and place names, until he came to the back of the album and found something he'd missed the previous night. Tucked into a flap on the end paper was a slim packet. Mulder pulled it free and saw it was a manila envelope, addressed to Skinner and postmarked June 1992. There was a sender's address label on the top left corner that read:

Thomas H. Dorsey  
1138 Sherman Drive  
White Falls MD 34004

The packet was open at one end and Mulder peered in. There was a bundle of letters and a few more photographs. Mulder pulled the whole lot out onto the desktop, but bit his lip at the sight of the letters and pushed them back into the envelope - they were too personal.

There were three photographs. One showed a big, burly black man leaning heavily on a walking cane, beside him a plump, sad-eyed woman holding a small American flag. Both were soberly dressed in dark overcoats. The other two photographs were of the Vietnam Memorial. Mulder recognized the sombre black marble Wall. One shot showed the burly man hunkered down, placing the flag at the foot of the wall. The second was a close-up of a section of the polished dark marble. Centred in the frame of the picture was the name: John M.Jackson.

Jacko? And was the big black man Hog? Mulder flipped back through the album, comparing the recent picture with those from nearly 30 years ago. The man was much heavier and had a prosperous, comfortable look the scruffy young Marine had never had, but yes, it was still recognizably the same man. Was he the Thomas H. Dorsey who had sent the packet to Skinner?

Mulder had his cell phone out now, tapping in a speed-dial code and listening to a lengthy series of clicks and beeps before he could speak.

"Byers - it's me. Turn off the tape. I need some information..." He spoke quietly for a few minutes before ending the conversation:

"This is personal, Byers. I'd really appreciate anything you guys can come up with."

He tidied away the photographs and tucked the album back between "The Punic Wars: an Historical Perspective" and "Austerlitz: Napoleon's Longest Shot".

Skinner hadn't stirred when he returned to the living room, so he scribbled a note about going home for clean clothes and let himself out of the house.

He was sitting in the laundry room of his apartment building, watching his clothes tumble inside the dryer, when his cell-phone beeped. He listened to the voice on the other end, his face getting more and more animated:

"Still in White Falls, then...?"

"Yes, it's the same Skinner."

"No, I can't tell you... it's just... look, it's personal, that's all. But thanks... thanks guys."

He clicked the phone off and sat turning it in his hands thoughtfully while he planned what to do next. The Gunmen had confirmed that a Thomas H. Dorsey, a John M. Jackson and a Walter S. Skinner had all served together in a joint services unit between mid 1969 and late 1970, a unit designated only by the code DR2. They seemed to have been a small reconnaissance unit based up around the Laotian and Cambodian borders, intelligence gathering, locating and rescuing POWs, placing agents in North Vietnam. Unit DR2 had been involved in something called Operation Cablecar that had earned them a unit citation and their young officer, one 2nd Lt. Walter S. Skinner, a Bronze Star for "extraordinary valour".

Byers had also confirmed that Dorsey still lived at the Maryland address and that John M. Jackson had been killed in action in August 1971.

Mulder knew what he was going to do: he was going to pay a visit to Thomas Dorsey and find out all he could about Operation Cablecar.

It was going to be tricky, though. He could make the journey to White Falls and back in a day, but he and Skinner were both expecting to be back at work in a few days time, so he was either going to have to invent some reason for suddenly being prepared to abandon Skinner for a whole day, or wait until he was back on duty and find some legitimate case-related reason to go up to Maryland. But then there'd be official paperwork, a 302 that Skinner himself would have to sign... he'd be bound to be suspicious, especially as he knew Mulder had found the photograph album. It was a problem.

Suddenly registering the time, Mulder realized he'd been away from Skinner for over four hours and that he still had reason to be worried about the older man's recovery. He stuffed his laundry into his gym bag and headed back.

Skinner was wearing an apron and drying his hands on a dishcloth when he answered his front door. He pretended to be dismayed at the sight of Mulder back again, this time with luggage, but the appetizing smells wafting from the kitchen and the two places laid at the table told Mulder that Skinner was not really feeling unwelcoming.

They ate Skinner's delicious beef stew and fresh hot biscuits in a companionable silence and watched the ball game on TV in true male-bonding tradition. Mulder stole occasional glances at Skinner's relaxed profile and at the gorgeous big body sprawled beside him on the sofa and wondered it he'd ever be able to tell the other man how he really felt about him. When the game ended he stood and stretched, seizing the relaxed moment:

"I may need to be away for a day during the weekend. I had a call at home... something personal..."

"It's okay, Mulder. You don't have to babysit me. I'm doing fine now and we'll be back in the office on Monday anyway. You're still on your own time, you go if you need to - is it anything I can help with?"

Mulder looked hard at him and almost decided to forget the subterfuge and just ask Skinner outright about his heroic past. But he held back. Skinner didn't know how obsessed Mulder had become, it would seem intrusive to ask about something so specific and how would he explain knowing about the Bronze Star and Operation Cablecar without admitting that he'd been snooping? There was definitely a new level of friendship and trust between the two men but it was probably too soon to test it with a revelation like that.

"No, sir, not at the moment. But thank you..."

They retired to their respective rooms and Mulder took out his cell phone again and began making travel arrangements.

~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder drove his rental car along Sherman Drive looking out for number 1138. The houses were lavish ranch-style buildings set on large lots and separated from each other by mature trees. Thomas H. Dorsey had done well for himself in the last 30 years. Mulder parked in the driveway of number 1138 and walked slowly to the front porch, wondering how best to approach this.

The door was opened by Mr. Dorsey himself, his broad face shining with bonhomie, not at all suspicious of the stranger on his doorstep.

"What can I do for you, young man?"

"My name is Mulder, sir. I work for the FBI, but I'm not here on official business. My boss is Walter Skinner." He paused, seeing the name register immediately in the other man's face.

"Walt - has anything happened...?"

"He's okay, sir, but something he experienced recently brought up his time in Vietnam and as a friend I thought that if I had a bit more information..."

"Your boss, and a friend, huh? Well, I can see how that could happen. You'd best come on inside, Mr. Mulder - or should that be Agent Mulder?"

"Just Mulder is fine, and I appreciate your seeing me, sir."

"No need for the 'sir', son. Back then I was just 'Hog' and I guess it still fits..."

He led the way into a plush living room with a huge sectional sofa and one whole wall looking out onto a patio and pool.

"My middle name is Hogarth, but I got the nickname because I liked my chow so much - even the C-Rats they gave us in 'Nam." He patted his capacious belly and gestured Mulder to one end of the sofa, seating himself in a huge leather recliner nearby.

"Now, son, tell me what this is all about and how Walt is - he doesn't keep in touch like he used to."

Mulder launched into the tale of his ill-fated jungle escapade and how Skinner had come to his aid, nearly killing himself in the process.

Dorsey listened with rapt attention, nodding several times, as if it was nothing but what he'd expect of Skinner. When Mulder finished Dorsey gave a low whistle:

"Good God - it's Cablecar all over again - no wonder you're worried about Walt."

"That's just it, sir - er, Mr.Dorsey... I don't really know about Operation Cablecar, only that Skinner was awarded the Bronze Star for his part in it. Would you tell me the story?"

Hog looked at Mulder for a long minute before he sat forward in his chair and slapped Mulder on the knee.

"I'm not sure it's really my story to tell, but I can't imagine Walt volunteering to tell you either, however good a friend you are." He grinned at Mulder. "Let's have a drink, though - it's quite a tale."

Before Mulder could protest, the big man was heading off to another room. His deep voice came booming back to Mulder.

"How about jasmine tea, son? I got a taste for it out East, very good for stressful moments it is."

Mulder grinned to himself, mightily relieved that Hog was such a genial host and not dubious about talking to Mulder about his past.

They sat sipping the hot, fragrant tea while Hog unfolded the history of Deep Recon 2 and the events leading up to Operation Cablecar. Dorsey got up to fetch his own albums of newspaper clippings and photographs and to switch on lamps as the winter evening closed in.

"Of course, you need to go back a while before Dong Hoi and the whole Cablecar operation to understand about Jacko and Walt."

Dorsey was sitting forward, his elbows on his spread knees, watching Mulder intently. Mulder had the feeling Hog was telling him more than he was actually saying and tried his best to look calmer than he felt.

"You have to understand, we were all very young and Walt... Walt was always remarkable. He carried us all in different ways..."

He studied Mulder closely again, making the younger man blush at the scrutiny, then started hunting through one of his albums looking for something. Finding what he was after, he passed the bound book over to Mulder.

"We had a photographer from Newsweek with us for a couple of weeks. He took a million shots and let us have some he didn't use. This is one of his..."

Mulder turned the album around to look at the picture and felt his throat close with emotion as he took in the image. It was a 10x8 black and white print of the young Walter Skinner. He was bending over a map table, interrupted in the act of plotting a route, pen still held between long fingers. He looked right at the camera, as if someone had called his name just as the shot was taken, his dark eyes wide and serious. Camouflage pants and a flak jacket hanging open over his bare chest gave him the air of an experienced veteran. The lean body was mid-way between boyhood and manhood: slighter than his muscled maturity but with enough definition in chest and abdomen and biceps to hint at the magnificent physique he would develop. What struck Mulder though, was the maturity in that solemn gaze: this was no green boy, but a young man who had seen death and who carried the responsibility for lives other than his own.

It was a beautiful picture. Sunlight filtered through leaves to outline the curve of the neat cropped head and the graceful bare neck, to catch the glint of dog tags hanging against the bare tanned chest, to cast the shadow of the poised hand and bony wrist across the spread map. Skinner had been beautiful then too.

Mulder swallowed hard and passed the open book back to Dorsey. The older man took a deep breath and began the story...

"We were all volunteers, pulled out of our regular units to form DR2. Five eager young men and one very new Lieutenant, fresh out of Officer Training and already with a half tour as a humble corporal behind him. Walt was a remarkable young officer, a born leader, I would say. Knew just how to pitch his instructions between mateyness and command, knew how to bond us into a real team. We were keen, but basically unused to being in such a small unit, to relying on only ourselves for long stretches, cut off from the main supply-lines. Walt was real quiet, but real patient too. He never asked us to do anything he wouldn't do himself. He did more than his share of digging latrines and trenches and hauling supplies, won our respect from day one. Not a one of us but wouldn't have died for that man...

"Jacko took to him even more than the rest of us though. We could all see that, even before Cablecar. I think Jacko loved Walt from the first time he laid eyes on him. He used to follow him round like a stray puppy, always wanting to do stuff for him. It must have been a real trial, but Walt never said anything, treated him the same as all of us.

"We'd been together as a unit for nearly 4 months when Cablecar was planned. We'd been making regular raids over into Laos and even North Vietnam: intelligence gathering mostly, getting downed air-crews back out... all covert, or course, even today there's official denial that US forces ever operated across the border. We'd got word that there were some POWs being held in N.V., about a two-day march from our camp. The word came down from MACV/SOG we were to go in and bring them out.

"The weather was awful - it was getting into their winter and even in the rainforests where we were it was cold and wet most of the time. Played havoc with extractions - the CH-46s couldn't maneuver accurately in the winds and more than once we'd had to guide aircrews out on foot rather than getting them away by chopper.

"That was the start of things going wrong on the night of Cablecar. Walt had told SOG that the wind would fuck up the extraction, that we didn't even know how many POWs there were to bring out, that the LZ was too far into enemy territory to go ahead when the extraction was so risky... they didn't want to know. We went over the border after dark, getting as far as we could on the first day, hiding up during daylight hours and going on again at dusk. It was nerve-wracking stuff, without much intelligence and without the benefit of radios or backup. We each carried two spare Stabo harnesses for winching out the POWs. The plan was to take the post where the prisoners were, get back as near to the border as we could during darkness, ready for extraction at first light. Walt had identified a relatively clear ridge as the best location for the CH-46 landing zone. But it was the only feasible LZ and if the wind made that spot unusable we would be on our own in enemy country.

"Our intelligence was good as regards the location of the enemy post. Walt had put in hours with the maps and the interrogation reports from a couple of VCs we'd captured in the area. We positioned ourselves perfectly, took them by surprise and found the main force gone, only a few guards left to watch the prisoners. There were five POWs, two badly wounded, but several friendlies we hadn't expected - a couple of women with kids... there was no way we were going to be able to extract them all.

"We started back to better cover in the deep forest, aiming for the LZ on the ridge. The rain was lashing down and visibility was very bad: we were all thinking that the extraction was going to be very risky. One of the POWs had serious grenade injuries - I had to carry him most of the way to the ridge. Walt was carrying the three youngest kids clinging to his shoulders like burrs, their mothers hanging onto his Stabo harness. Maggs and Fisher were guiding the other POWs, Didja was herding the older kids and Jacko was bringing up the rear, covering our tracks.

"We made it to the ridge and Walt got us bedded down as well as was possible in the wet and wind. Sometime just before dawn the main VC force returned to their post and found their prisoners gone. They set out to track us and caught us at early light, laying down heavy fire and wounding two of the children and Didja. I took a bullet in the thigh in their second attack and we didn't even realize that Jacko was down until one of the kids came tugging at Walt's sleeve while he was trying to raise the CH-46 for the airlift.

"We could hear the chopper nearby but we couldn't get the air marker laid out for the wind and there was no way smoke would show up. Walt was incredible: he got everyone together on the edge of the clear part of the ridge, going back three times himself to carry the wounded, while the enemy fired on him. The chopper got in near enough to lift eight of us out, leaving Walt, Jacko, one of the kids who wouldn't go up on the winch and the badly injured POW who needed a stretcher. The chopper came back around for a third attempt and Walt finally got the kid strapped up and I winched her aboard. The wind was ferocious, battering against the fuselage, pushing us back towards the hillside all the time. We got the stretcher lowered and Walt and Jacko started strapping the POW in. The sky lit up with mortars and the enemy took advantage of Walt and the others being out in the clearing at last and fired again. I saw Walt get hit and then the chopper was blown around and we had to lift off with that poor bastard in his stretcher dangling under us. He was dead before we could haul him in.

"We heard later that Walt carried Jacko for eight hours, despite being wounded in the shoulder and side. They got back over the border and were picked up on a dust-off from 1st Recon Battalion base. We all got patched up and had a spot of R&R in Saigon and then it was back to business. Walt would never talk much about that rescue, but Jacko was more devoted than ever after that, saw himself as Walt's personal protection, got real careless of his own safety more than once. It troubled Walt, I know. He didn't want to be idolized, couldn't see what the rest of us could see, that he was a God-honest Hero with a capital 'H'. The whole unit got a citation for Cablecar and Walt got the Bronze Star. Should've been the Medal of Honor if you ask me."

Dorsey was getting choked up as the memories crowded in. Mulder knew it was time to go. He rose and held out his hand to Dorsey.

"Thank you for telling me, Hog. I don't think Skinner has changed that much. He's still a born leader, still looking after his people, still doesn't know what a hero he is."

Dorsey looked up at him with that considering look again:

"Walt didn't know how to take Jacko's friendship back then. Bit of a lone wolf, is Walt. But if you care about him, and I think you do, stick in there - maybe he's ready now. In his line of work I imagine he needs a good friend and his friendship is worth waiting for."

"Yes, sir. I know it is."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was very late when he got back to Skinner's. He let himself in quietly and took his shoes off to climb the stairs. He was turning towards his room when he heard Skinner's quiet voice:

"Mulder, is that you? Is everything OK?"

Mulder stuck his head around Skinner's open door. His boss was sitting up in bed reading, files spread over the covers around him.

"Work, sir? I wouldn't have left you on your own if I'd known this was what you'd get up to. Is this one of those secret vices you mentioned?"

Skinner chuckled and stretched, oblivious to the effect his flexing muscles had on the younger man.

"I had Kimberly messenger them over earlier. I need to get up to speed again before I go into the office on Monday. How was your day, did you get done what you needed to?"

Mulder considered: it was very late, but he might never get another opening like this...

"I think so, sir. I went to see an old friend of yours - Thomas Dorsey." He saw the anger flare in Skinner's eyes and almost flinched, but then the older man's expression softened.

"I suppose I was almost expecting this conversation... if not quite yet. Once I knew you'd found the album and read the letters..."

"I didn't read the letters. I found your medals and just wanted to know the story. I didn't think you'd tell me, so I went behind your back. I'm sorry. I guess I don't deserve your trust after all."

"Mulder, don't leap to take the blame for everything. I didn't show that much trust in you assuming you'd read those letters, not telling you about Jacko..."

"I'd still like to know about Jacko, Walter..." He tried the name on his lips for the first time quietly, liking the sound of it, hoping Skinner didn't mind. He pressed on...

"Mr. Dorsey told me about Cablecar and a bit about DR2, but he only hinted about you and Jacko. I'd really like you to tell me."

Skinner nodded gently, swept the files to one side and gestured to the chair beside the bed. Mulder wasn't having that, and settled himself on the foot of the bed, looking earnestly at the man he loved.

Skinner pulled off his glasses and folded them carefully, taking a moment to decide how to tell this difficult tale. When he looked back up, Mulder was shocked to see his eyes bright with unshed tears. He spoke so quietly Mulder had to lean forward to hear him.

"Jacko was a troubled soul..." He paused, apparently embarrassed to be using such poetic language.

"He'd had a hard life, well - childhood, he was a year younger than me. He'd been regularly beaten by his father and run away from home on his eighteenth birthday to join the Marines. He'd made some friends in his first unit, but lost most of them at Khe Sanh. It happened to a lot of us. We learned to keep part of ourselves to ourselves. Jacko couldn't do that, he was so open..." Skinner swallowed, turning his head away from Mulder, clearly moved. Mulder wanted to reach over and touch the other man, but Skinner cleared his throat and continued.

"He was assigned to DR2 straight from R&R with a rep for great tracking skills, but he came in cocky and confident and messed up his first duty assignment. I had to roast his ass over it and somehow that made me special in his eyes - as if he craved the attention, even if it was negative."

Mulder made a noise and Skinner frowned at him.

"I was just thinking how I could understand that reaction, sir. I know how unforgettable one of your ass-roastings can be."

He saw Skinner looking ready to take offence and smiled an innocent smile.

"I'm sorry, sir. Please go on."

"Well... at first I didn't realize what he was up to, but after a couple of weeks it was clear he was deliberately making bad mistakes in order to be hauled over the coals by me. We were a pretty informal unit - had to be, miles away from any base, no MPs, no radio contact half the time. We didn't make a big deal about rank. I was barely older than most of them anyway, and just out of OTC. I reckoned to demonstrate by example how I wanted things done. We worked together, ate together, slept together..." He glanced at Mulder to see if he would make some smart comment about this last remark, but he found the autumnal eyes watching him gravely, no hint of frivolity there.

"A man who is undisciplined is a danger to the whole unit. I couldn't ignore Jacko's behaviour, but I didn't know how to convince him my patience was wearing thin. One day he was bringing in fresh water supplies and lost the lot. Said he'd been buzzed by VC choppers, but we'd had no intelligence...

"I blew my top, kept him at attention for over an hour while I told him point by point what a waste of space he was and how I was going to have him reassigned. Next thing I knew he was crying. Totally silent, just these tears running down his cheeks. He was still at ramrod attention, looking straight ahead, weeping. I sat him down and suddenly all this stuff came pouring out about his dad and his mom and how no-one had ever thought he was worth anything. I knew that whatever I said to him would affect how he saw himself henceforth."

Skinner was twisting his fingers in the sheet on his lap, his voice was very low. Mulder sensed how fresh this memory still was to his boss, how critically he judged all his own actions. He's so hard on himself, he thought.

"I told him that he had to think he was worth something before he could expect anyone else to. That he was wasting his God-given talents by playing the fool and that he had the makings of a first-rate Marine if he'd sort himself out and be a team player. I couldn't believe no one had said those things to him before this, it was no special insight... it seemed to have an effect on him, though. He was a changed man after that - competent, tireless, enthusiastic. It was something to see."

Mulder watched Skinner shake his head over the image in his mind, a gentle smile starting on his lips and touching his eyes softly. He has no idea of the power he has to command, Mulder realized, charmed with the thought. How he must despair of me, though... I haven't 'shaped up', become a team player. I want to make him proud of me that way, but I just make difficulties for him. Why does he persist with me? Lost in his own thoughts, Mulder started when he heard Skinner's quiet voice again.

"It was as if he grew up overnight. He became a model Marine. It would have been funny, except that he was so earnest about it, you couldn't laugh at him...

"When Cablecar was first proposed I was against it. The intelligence on the number of POWs was vague, the camp was too far into enemy country, there was no obvious extraction point, the weather would be against us at that time of year... I made my points but SOG was adamant. Well, you know what happened..."

He flicked a look at Mulder and the younger man almost flinched at the fury in Skinner's face. He was still incensed after all these years at the way his men had been used.

"It was a total fuck-up. We weren't equipped to get the women and children over terrain like that. The LZ was a no-go from the moment that wind got up... The POWs were too weak, too badly wounded to help themselves any..."

His hands were fisted, the knuckles white, as tight as the muscles in his face. Mulder didn't think about the wisdom of the move, he just reached forward and put a steadying hand on Skinner's tense arm. Skinner's shook him off, not seeming to even be aware of Mulder's presence, lost in that past, that nightmare. He spoke again:

"When the CH-46 finally got off that ridge I knew I had to move Jacko fast. There were still shots coming from the cover of the trees and both of us were already hit, we made easy targets. Jacko was out of it, moaning and drifting in and out of consciousness... all I could do was sling him on my back and get the hell out of there."

Mulder tried that light touch on his arm again, and this time Skinner looked up at him.

"You carried him out? Like you did me."

"Yeah, we got out."

He dropped his head, frowning down at his knotted hands. Was that it, Mulder wondered, was that all he was going to say? The guy carries his buddy for eight hours despite being wounded himself and all he says is 'We got out"? He cleared his throat.

"Would you tell me about that journey, sir? I'd really like to hear that."

Skinner lay back against the pillows, chewing on his lower lip, his arms folded across his chest now. He studied Mulder intently for a few moments, then nodded.

"I wasn't in bad shape, considering, but we'd used all the harnesses to get the others out, so I had nothing to strap Jacko on with. My right shoulder was weakened from the hit and I couldn't hold him up. In the end I had to sling him over my left and pray I didn't fall and break both our necks. The rain made everything slick, the ground fell away in these mudslides everywhere... We were soaked through and the temperature was dropping - that much was different from your jungle - I didn't have anything to keep the rain off him, to keep him warm... He went quiet after a while, but I could feel his heartbeat against my back.

"I didn't dare stop for anything. A man can die from blood-loss, from an infected wound with all those insects leeching onto you, from exposure...I had to get Jacko to somewhere safe where he could get treated. Also, I thought if I stopped I might never get going again. You lie down for a moment and the tiredness and weakness gets you like a drug. I've seen men die within yards of their camp because they lay down and let death take them. I wasn't going to do that so I just kept going. I lifted my head and drank the rain when I was thirsty, I pissed in my pants when I needed to, I didn't think about pain or time or anything but getting over that border."

His voice was harsh, denying the heroism, denying anything unusual or exceptional. Mulder swallowed hard, more moved than ever by the strength and courage of this man.

"I knew when we'd crossed back into S.V. by the smell. Even in that temperature the stench of latrines was inescapable. There were small bases all over that sector, we got a dust-off in a few hours and were at the field hospital in Dong Hoi by early next morning. Jacko was bad, lost a lot of blood, it was touch and go."

"And you?" Mulder almost whispered the question.

"I had a dislocated shoulder, the collar-bone was smashed by one bullet and another one had got two ribs and grazed the lung. It was messy for a while, but I survived. I'd know worse before long."

So matter-of-fact, that steady deep voice. No fuss, no drama. Mulder felt his throat close with emotion. He wanted to take Skinner in his arms, to coax the tears from him that Mulder himself was ready to shed. To tell him that he was loved. But the story wasn't all told yet. He had to wait until Skinner was back in the present. He prompted him gently:

"You got the Bronze Star and you both went back to DR2?"

"After some R&R, yeah. There was a lot of fuss about the citation, they couldn't acknowledge that we'd been across the border... we enjoyed watching the brass trying to work around that. I was pleased for the guys, a Presidential unit citation was a big deal for those kids, something to tell their Moms and Dads. They tried to make out I wassome sort of hero, sent a photographer to take pictures. I just thought how we never got that kind of attention when we were just making maps or digging latrines. That's what they should give medals for."

He laughed, a harsh sound, quickly cut off with a cough. Mulder suddenly realized they'd been sitting there for over an hour, Skinner was still recuperating, he should be under the covers, getting his sleep. With me keeping him warm, he added to himself, letting the longing sweep over him briefly.

"Sir, you should get some rest..."

"Not just yet, Mulder. I need to finish this and it's about you too."

Mulder was startled. Could Skinner have guessed how he felt about him? Had he blown it before he'd even had a chance to...

"People see you differently after you've saved their lives. They want to make a connection that maybe isn't there. Or they see something that..." Skinner took a deep breath, closed his eyes, clenched his hands.

"Jacko thought he... loved me. He wanted more than I could give him. I hurt him by not seeing it right away, by not setting him straight. God knows I loved all those guys like brothers, but not... I didn't know how I felt... He came to me one night, slid under the tarp next to me. We just held each other, it felt good.

"He slept next to me every night for a week and then there was a bad patrol and that night he was shaking and kissing me desperately and we... made love. I knew he thought I could make a difference, that I was a hero, but I was just like him, a scared kid. I had to tell him it wasn't what he thought it was, I wasn't what he thought I was."

Something icy gripped Mulder's heart. He felt the older man barricading himself behind those lonely walls again.

"I think the same thing is happening with you and I, Mulder. We went through a traumatic experience together and it made you see me differently for a while. I can't be anything but your friend and your boss, whatever I...

"I think you've let yourself see something that isn't there and I don't want to hurt you. I'm truly grateful for what you did for me. I owe you my life, but we both just did what we had to do. I don't want you to waste your admiration on me, I don't deserve it and I don't think..."

Mulder broke in, furiously,

"That's all bullshit, if you'll forgive me, sir. I know exactly what you are and what I feel about you. Don't try and tell me that what I feel isn't real. I love you; I want to be with you, I want you to let me into your isolation. I know you care about me, whatever makes you deny it to yourself, I heard what you said while you were unconscious..."

He broke off, seeing the shock drain the colour from Skinner's already pale face. Shit, he thought, why did I bring that up now?

"I think you'd better leave, Agent Mulder. I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself until I'm back at work. I appreciate all you've done but it would be best if you left now."

"I don't want your fucking gratitude, Walter!"

"Agent Mulder! Please go."

Skinner turned away and pulled the covers up around himself. Mulder kept his eyes fixed on the bed as he backed blindly out of the room. He was packed and slamming his car door within ten minutes.

In the dark bedroom Walter Skinner lay with his arm across his face, forbidding the tears to fall.

THE END

 

* * *

 

Replay 3: Warm Thoughts  
By Sergeeva and Xanthe (163KB - April 1999)  
CATEGORY: SRA, Slash (Mulder/Skinner)  
RATING: NC-17 for violence, language, loving and consenting m/m sex.  
(Warning: this story also contains a description of m/m oral rape. Please be warned and do not read on if you are under age or do not wish to read such material)  
SPOILERS: small ones for Paper Clip, Avatar, Tunguska  
SUMMARY: Skinner's anguish is not yet over and an old enemy returns.  
THANKS: To Hal, for her beta-brilliance, and to all our friends for encouraging, supporting, nagging and waiting. We hope you'll think it was worth it.  
DISCLAIMER: Most of them don't belong to us, sadly. The characters of the X-Files are the creation and property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Broadcasting and the talented actors who bring them to life. No infringement of copyright is intended and no money is being made from their use here. The other characters portrayed herein are the creation of the authors and may be used only with permission.  
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated and answered. Write to the authors at and   
AUTHORS' NOTES: This is the third and final part of the Replay series. You should read Replay 1: Falling and Replay 2: Another Country to understand what is going on here. The poetry quoted here is by Pablo Neruda, from his "Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair" and "100 Love Sonnets". If, at the end, you would like to see where we leave our heroes, visit The Wall

* * *

It was a perfect position from which to observe, he thought. The ground rose steeply behind the widely spaced houses and it was thickly wooded - perfect cover for surveillance. The wood thinned out into an area of pleasant paths and trails, but not for some hundreds of yards back from the boundaries of the lots. Dog-walkers confined themselves to that more level ground and he'd been able to make his observation post here without fear of discovery. No human or animal had shown any interest in the lone man lurking in the deep woods.

He'd been here for three days now, huddled in an unzipped sleeping bag, not daring to do more than catnap in case he needed to make a quick getaway. His subject hadn't slept much either, which had made his job a lot easier. The man he was watching through his high-powered binoculars had spent most of the last 48 hours sitting staring into space from the sofa in his living room, or pacing that same room from end to end like a caged panther. In the last few hours he'd started gathering papers onto the low table by the sofa - letters and newspaper clippings they looked like, then photographs - dozens of them. The man had read and re-read the letters and clippings and turned the photographs over and over in his hands, his face angry and then sorrowful.

It was silly to keep thinking of him as "the subject" or "the man". He'd tried to think of him that way to keep his feelings at bay during this crucial phase of the operation, but it wasn't working, so he might as well be honest with himself. He laughed softly at his own use of the word "honest" - it had been a long time since that had been appropriate. He wanted to be honest with this man, though, with the man he watched so doggedly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Walter Skinner rubbed a hand over his sore eyes. He needed to sleep, but he couldn't face the dreams that haunted him when he lost consciousness. Dreams of Fox Mulder, of hazel eyes flicking away from his in shock and hurt, of the sound of the front door slamming and a car driving away. Since he'd told Mulder to leave he'd been in a turmoil of pain and indecision. He couldn't get over the feeling that he'd closed a door on something that would not be offered again, on a friendship - maybe even more than a friendship - that had been painfully won and which might have changed his life for ever.

It was fear of such a change that had made him withdraw behind his protective walls again, made him try to convince himself that it was better for both of them that this end now, whatever this was, or had been. He was a bad risk, he told himself... too closed off to be reached, too chilled from years of keeping the horrors inside to ever be warm and human again, too set in his solitary ways to make any kind of relationship work. It was far kinder to hurt Mulder a little now, rather than let him go on hoping and fail him later, when he inevitably discovered how far from being a hero Skinner really was.

It was the charitable thing to do, the wise thing, the necessary thing. Why then, did it hurt worse than anything he'd ever felt, worse than Sharon's withdrawal, worse than losing his buddies in 'Nam, worse than the most lonely nights he'd endured? He lifted the whisky bottle and poured himself another inch. Only his second this morning, or was it afternoon by now? He barely knew what day it was, let alone what hour. He hadn't changed his clothes or showered or been outside of the house for nearly three days. He should have been back at work yesterday, but he'd felt ill enough to call in sick with a clear conscience. The Bureau had had enough of his life over the years, the work could wait another day. Seeing Mulder could wait a whole bleak lifetime... yes, that would be best - just never see him again, transfer him and his damn department onto some other AD, transfer himself to another office, resign... he let the whisky burn down his gullet and saw no hope in his future.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the cold hillside, Alex Krycek lowered the binoculars from the sight of his quarry drinking himself into oblivion and felt the anger rise like bile in his throat. Mulder had done this. He'd seen Mulder coming and going during the past week, knew that he'd spent several nights here, but he'd also seen lights in two bedrooms so he knew it wasn't quite a fait accompli. Spooky had been in with a chance at what he dreamed of... within a breath of having Skinner at his mercy, in his power and in his bed, and he'd blown it. He didn't deserve even Krycek's contempt. He certainly didn't deserve to have Skinner.

Once upon a time, Krycek had thought that he and Mulder... but it was impossible. Mulder was so fucked up he didn't see the truth in front of him: that survival was all that mattered. Whatever you had to do to survive, you did, taking comfort where you could. Those moments of human contact were what got you through all the shit and SpecialFuckingAgent Mulder might be a genius but he couldn't grasp that simple fact. He and Krycek could have made use of each other and found a moment of raw physical pleasure in an otherwise shitty life, but no - Mulder had His Quest, his search for The Truth. In pursuit of that truth, Mulder had brought Krycek to Walter Skinner's apartment one dark wintry night and that was when Krycek's fantasies had taken on a new plot.

He'd been unaware of whose apartment Mulder had dragged him to until he'd heard Skinner's deep voice asking who was at the door and his heart sunk. He knew Skinner first as a grim-faced superior with a deceptively soft voice that nevertheless could flay the skin off a less-than-efficient Agent as easily as peeling an orange. He'd watched Skinner in meetings, the man's controlled energy like a tangible presence in the room. Skinner didn't need to shout, he didn't need to use that intimidating physique as a threat (though that idea had given Krycek a few heart-racing moments on the rare occasions when he had to seek relief alone). Then he'd had a violent close encounter with the Assistant Director on the instructions of his then bosses. He had a very healthy respect for Skinner after that: it had taken three of them to get that tape off him. The AD had plenty of reasons to hate him after what Krycek had been a party to; when he heard the gravelly voice from behind the anonymous apartment door, Krycek expected only to take what was coming to him at the hands of this formidable man.

What his feelings did after the door opened was totally unexpected. At the sight of the bare-chested AD standing in the doorway Krycek felt his insides coil in a long slow roll of desire, felt the lust surge through him so ferociously that his legs buckled and only Mulder's grip on the collar of his jacket kept him upright. Skinner stepped back to allow Mulder to push Krycek into the apartment. Krycek kept his head low, sneaking a glance from under the peak of his ball cap at the man whose privacy they had invaded.

Skinner was wearing only dark dress pants, the belt still unbuckled from his hasty dressing, his feet bare. The moonlight through the high windows above the balcony doors slanted over his grim face and the powerful muscles of his chest and shoulders and Krycek felt the tightening in his groin in the seconds before Skinner's fist connected with his stomach and he crumpled to the floor.

Even through the pain he was so aroused by the proximity of Skinner's incredible body. As the AD hauled him to his feet and man-handled him out onto the balcony, all Krycek could think of was the heat coming off the man's bare skin, that smooth skin, taut over the curves of broad shoulders, hard pectorals and steely abdomen, the feeling of being held in that iron grip.

"Just think warm thoughts." Skinner had said to him as he left him handcuffed to the balcony rail. Krycek had done just that. He got himself through the chilly night by imagining what it would be like to run his hands over those muscles, to lick the fine skin of that bare throat, to stroke the smooth scalp, to unzip the dark pants and feel the heat of Skinner's cock against his lips. To shake that unshakeable control and have Skinner on his knees, whimpering with need... He'd been thinking warm thoughts about Walter Skinner ever since.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder was sitting at his desk, his chair tilted back at a dangerous angle, staring at the ceiling and wondering what excuse he could find to go up to the fourth floor. He'd already persuaded Kimberly to let him know as soon as Skinner appeared, but he couldn't believe his boss would miss another day's work. Maybe Walter had arrived in such a foul mood that Kimberly hadn't dared risk passing him the word... he had to see Walter, try and talk to him, make him see sense.

He'd driven away from Walter's house in a fury of resentment and self-pity. After all that had happened between them, he couldn't believe that Walter was ready to end this before it had really begun. He cursed himself for moving too fast, for scaring Walter off with his longing looks and neediness. He understood that Walter was wary of commitment after the unhappy ending of his marriage, that he was probably still under stress from their recent experiences, that his by-the-book professionalism would make him fight shy of any sort of personal relationship with a subordinate... He could imagine all these things convincing Walter this was a bad idea, but he had counter-arguments marshalled and ready to roll and not to be given the chance to even put his case... that was too cruel.

He glanced over at Scully, perched on a straight-backed chair across the room, leafing through a forensic report, her glasses propped on her nose, tapping her front teeth with her pen.

"I'm just going to get a soda, you want anything?"

"No, not at the moment, Mulder... thanks." Scully didn't even look up from the notes, not wanting to be distracted.

"Okay." He headed for the door. Timing was everything. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned back, as if a thought had just struck him..."I could see if Kimberly has that 302 for us yet."

Scully looked up, frowning absently. "I thought Skinner was still off, recuperating," she said. "In any case, I'd have thought you'd want to stay well away from Skinner for a good while longer yet, after that fiasco he's just pulled you out of. He's not going to be pleased with you, Mulder, especially when he comes back to the mountain of paperwork your little escapade will have generated. I wouldn't push it by asking for a 302 if I were you."

"Well, I could just see if he's in, ask how he is..." Mulder was half out of the door.

"Do you have a death wish? Or are you two closer than I realised?"

Mulder backed out of the room hastily, calling back: "Well, we bonded pretty well down there, you know..."

Left alone, Scully put down her pen and sat looking pensive. For all his wisecracking, Mulder hadn't been his usual irrepressible self the last couple of days. She'd put it down to the aftermath of a scary experience, but now she was beginning to wonder. He'd refused to let her stop by while he was off work last week but he hadn't replied to any of her phone messages until the Sunday night, and she couldn't believe he'd been asleep at home all that time. He never slept, he called her up in the middle of the night to talk because he couldn't sleep.

Something was going on. She wondered if she should try and contact the Lone Gunmen, but she'd feel foolish confessing to such a unjustified curiosity in her partner's private life... Perhaps that was it: perhaps he just had a private life at last, someone else to spend time with. She was surprised to feel a quick flash of jealousy - not that Mulder was spending time with someone other than herself: she sincerely hoped that he did have other friends, or even one friend in particular... No, it was jealousy that he might have found some normal sociable activity on which to spend the last bit of his vacation time, when her own life seemed to consist of work, household chores and sleep.

If Mulder did have a life beyond the X-Files, it wasn't making him very happy at the moment, she thought. Maybe when Skinner was back at work she should have a word with him. The two men seemed to have become closer through their recent ordeal, maybe the AD could find out what was making Mulder so restless and moody lately. She remembered Mulder's extraordinary behaviour at the hospital: insisting on staying at Skinner's bedside. At the time, she'd dismissed it as a natural solicitude for the man who had saved his life, whose life he had saved. Now, thinking of how many times he'd found it necessary to run up to the fourth floor or contact Kimberly over the last couple of days she suddenly wondered if... no, it couldn't be... could it?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Skinner was pacing again. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, he made a circuit of his living room. The activity helped him think but he was desperately tired and could hardly steer a course between the pieces of furniture. He should sleep, he should eat, he should get cleaned up and he should go into the office... He was a grown man, for God's sake, not some frightened child. He had to take up the reins again, resume a normal existence, bury himself in work and forget Fox Mulder. Yes, work was the answer. With sudden nervous energy, he left the room and headed upstairs.

Krycek, watching from his position amongst the distant trees, began to gather his equipment: something was happening. Now might be his chance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder ignored the soda machine in the corridor and headed straight for the stairs. He climbed them two at a time, suddenly feeling hopeful. He exited the stairwell on the fourth floor with a crash of the heavy door, eliciting disapproving frowns from two admin assistants walking sedately along, their arms full of files.

Apart from the beginnings and ends of the day, when people were arriving and leaving, there was always a hushed, intimidating quiet on the executive levels of the Hoover Building. The fifth floor, where the Director had his suite of offices, was even more sepulchral, but here, where the AD's and their assistants worked, there was an air of impenetrable bureaucracy at it's most ponderous. Hurrying was out of place here, as was frivolity, or emotions of any kind, unless you counted painstaking, nit-picking, interminable attention to detail.

Mulder had spent some of the most unpleasant moments of his professional life in these hallowed hallways; sitting on a hard sofa in Skinner's outer office, waiting to be summoned to the presence, or hovering outside some briefing room before having to explain himself to yet another panel of stonefaced top brass. For too long, he'd lumped Skinner in with those other men of straw, not taking the trouble to see how often Skinner had gone out on a limb for him, or soothed the ruffled feathers of his fellow AD's after some costly exploit of Spooky Mulder's.

Like this latest mess, he thought, ruefully, as he turned the corner to Skinner's outer door. He's going to have some major soothing to do after this little adventure. His hand on the door to Kimberly's sanctum, he paused. He thought about why he was here. If Skinner is still absent from work, he must be more ill than I realized. He needs someone to look after him, even if he doesn't know it. I don't care if he throws me out every time I turn up, I'm going to keep turning up until he agrees to see me, to talk to me. He can't forbid me to care about him. If he's come into the office, then at least I'll know he's well enough to face my arguments. Either way, I'm going to make him see the truth: that I love him and I think he loves me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Krycek waited until he saw Skinner leave the house before he approached. The big man was immaculate in dark suit and starched shirt, but he looked diminished, weary: dark circles under his eyes. He's not worth it, Skinner, hissed Krycek to himself. Mulder was a weak wreck of a man, forever harping on his sad childhood, pursuing a doomed idea of uncovering a global conspiracy. Hardly a man at all... just a boy with big ideas. Krycek remembered how Skinner had called him "Boy" and how that had hurt more than that gut punch. He'd wanted to show Skinner then exactly how much of a man he was, how he was man enough even for Walter Skinner. He could recognise an alpha male when he saw one and he wanted the chance to match that dizzying virility with his own passion, to meet strength with strength, to take and be taken by that magnificent man.

Of course, since that night he was somewhat less of a man, some would say. He glanced down at the prosthetic that replaced his left arm. He'd refused to let it affect his life, though, or his way of surviving, and none of his many partners had seemed to mind the disfigurement that much. He compensated for it in other areas. Krycek grinned wolfishly to himself and watched the AD drive away, leaving the house in darkness.

Gaining access was a challenge but not impossible. Skinner had installed a first-rate security system, but Krycek had a lot of experience in circumventing the best, and within 40 minutes he was sliding back the patio doors and stepping onto the cream carpet of Skinner's living room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kimberly was standing, arms laden with files and looking harassed when Mulder entered the outer office. He relieved her of the sliding heap of buff folders and raised his eyebrows speculatively at her.

"He's on his way in now." She said, sounding worried. "He called from his car and said he wanted all the case files for the past three weeks on his desk for when he arrived. He sounded very grim, even for him. I hope he isn't coming back too soon. I sent a load of files over to him the other night at his request, but he may not be prepared for just how much paperwork can accumulate in three weeks. I don't think he's ever been away from work for that long before." She glanced up at Mulder, looking as if she thought she might have said too much.

"I think I'll wait until he arrives." Mulder thought he managed to sound remarkably calm, considering how much of the mountain of paperwork was relating to him. "I want to see how he is, anyway, and maybe I can help out."

Kimberly stared at him doubtfully. Mulder could imagine her thinking it was strange enough that Fox Mulder had been taking such an interest in his boss's whereabouts for the last day or so, when he usually tried his best to avoid the AD's presence, but now he was offering to help out with the paperwork?

She was still regarding him dubiously when the door opened behind them and Skinner himself strode in. Mulder swung round and let his gaze take in the sight of the man he loved. It was all he could do not to reach for Skinner there and then, regardless of who saw. Walter looked dreadful. Well, he looked wonderful: tall and imposing in his perfectly tailored suit and restrained tie, immaculately clean-shaven and still tanned from his week in Antigua. But Mulder could see beyond the GQ image of executive power. Skinner's eyes were hooded, seeming even more deep-set than usual in his drawn face. His cheeks were sunken, his collar seemed too big for his neck, his lips were pale... he also looked as if he was fiercely controlling some strong emotion.

"Agent Mulder. I'd have thought my office was the last place you'd want to be, in the circumstances." Skinner winced at the words that emerged from his own lips. Striding past Mulder, he acknowledged Kimberly with a tired smile and headed for the inner door.

"Should you really be here, sir?" Kimberly asked, following him into his own office. Mulder tagged along, leaning on the doorframe before Kimberly could shut him out. Skinner set his briefcase down on a desk swamped with dozens of buff folders, and hung his suit coat over the back of his chair. Mulder could see that his boss had lost more weight and without stopping to debate the wisdom of what he was doing, he stepped around Kimberly and leaned over to Skinner.

"You look awful, sir. You're not well enough to be back at work yet, I'm sure. Why don't you let me..." An icy hiss interrupted him,

"I'm perfectly capable of judging my own state of health. Agent Mulder, and I think you have helped quite enough with this already." His hand swept over the mass of files and his voice was very quiet.

"I'll expect your full report on this whole mess on my desk by 6pm and I'll see you in this office for a de-briefing tomorrow morning at 8.30am. That will be all."

Kimberly looked disconcertedly between the two men. Mulder kept his gaze fixed on Skinner's bowed head and backed out of the room.

He should feel angry at Skinner's harsh words, but instead he only felt an aching concern. He could see Walter burning himself up with the determination to deny everything, and he couldn't bear to see their chance for happiness slip away because of one man's self-blindness. He knew he could make Walter happy, knew that Walter made him happy. Even bitter and remote like this, Walter was all he wanted, all he could think about.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Krycek was enjoying himself immensely. He'd been through every room in Skinner's home and learned a lot more about his unwitting host than he'd ever hoped to. It was a comfortable house, not lavishly furnished, but with some quality pieces and a surprising number of objets d'art. He had studied the prints and paintings with interest, wondering how many of them were Skinner's own taste and how many were things his ex-wife had chosen and he had just kept after the divorce. There were hundreds of books too: Krycek had inspected the shelves in the living room and upstairs in the study but not lingered. What really interested him was the few books strewn over the sofa table downstairs.

Even if he hadn't been observing Skinner for the past few days, it was obvious how the man had been passing the time: the refrigerator and cupboards were virtually empty, there were a few coffee mugs by the sink, but no plates. And an impressively large collection of empty liquor bottles. The huge bed in the master bedroom was neatly made, the pillow dented as if someone might have lain on the covers briefly, but no one had turned back the comforter. Downstairs there was mail tidily collected on an inlaid cabinet near the front door, all unopened. In the bathroom he'd found a bottle of prescription tablets, but it was nearly full. There was one set of towels in the laundry basket, still slightly damp from Skinner's pre-work shower and a wet-shave kit was lined up on the pristine counter top. Krycek was willing to bet that Skinner had hardly stirred from the living room in days.

That was where all the real clues were: the photograph albums, the boxes of letters, the open books. He'd spent a long time looking at these things, moved in spite of himself by the glimpses of a man's past contained therein. A past and a present: there were crumpled and abandoned notes littering the floor around the sofa, half sentences, violently scratched out. Some of the sheets seemed to be lists: he picked one up that said: "career, genius, danger, future, better heroes". What on earth did all that mean? And poetry, couplets scribbled so forcefully he could see how the nib of the old-fashioned fountain pen had splayed on the paper, doubling the ink strokes.

"I made the wall of shadow draw back,

beyond desire and act, I walked on."

Scrawled on a sheet of writing paper, the last phrase roughly underscored...

"How terrible and brief was my desire of you!

How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid."

Thick and black, then the pen drying and the marks merely savage gouges in the paper...

"And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.

And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was the voyage of my longing,

And in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!"

Beautifully penned, every letter perfectly formed, on heavy cream paper, folded once, as if to fit into an envelope, but there was no matching envelope.

Krycek felt an unaccustomed twinge of sympathy as he reconstructed this trail of desolation. Inexplicable as it was to him, it seemed that Skinner actually cared about Mulder, maybe even loved him. Or thought he loved him. Wait until he experiences real passion, Krycek gloated to himself at the thought: wait until he's in my bed and we'll see how much he pines for his pet Fox.

He made sure to leave all the papers, books and objects precisely where he'd found them, but he didn't bother to erase fingerprints. Let Mulder just try and follow his tracks, he'd only meet his humiliation that much sooner. One last task before he re-set the alarms and let himself out into the dusk again: he took an ampoule of colourless liquid from his jacket pocket and dripped a measure carefully into the opened whisky bottle on the table.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was nearly 10 p.m. when Skinner arrived home. He sat in his car in the driveway too tired to get out. Too reluctant to face an empty house. Eventually, he made himself move. He noted his unopened mail, but left it lying. He didn't want to deal with bills or correspondence, didn't want to think about anything but sleep right now. Standing listlessly in the living room, the evidence of the past few days of depression confronted him; the photographs, papers, the open whisky bottle. He'd hoped to clarify his feelings by facing them, but all he had done was open up old wounds and rub salt into new ones.

He'd loved Jacko of course. Resisted it at the time, denied it for all the years since. Fox Mulder and his damned curiosity had unearthed all the guilt and self-loathing he thought he'd buried. Fox Mulder himself had started feelings in Skinner that were all too reminiscent of what he'd felt for Jacko. God, it was all happening again: the panic at the thought of hurting someone who had reached out to him. He'd been terrified of hurting Jacko and handled that by pulling back, by avoiding his lover. When DR2 was broken up and he'd had the chance to request Jacko's assignment to the same new unit as himself, he'd let it pass and been only too grateful for them to be separated. He hadn't even had the grace to talk to Jacko about it, so panicked had he been by the strength of his own feelings.

A new unit, new recruits to knock into shape, new responsibilities... he'd been a model officer and a thoughtless bastard of a lover. He'd written a single, stilted letter to Jacko, not saying any of what he wanted to say, and shoved the aches and longing down into that dark place where he kept the things he couldn't face. Of course, only weeks short of the end of his tour he'd walked into that ambush with the rest of his men and met his death. That would have been fitting, only he hadn't died.

Hovering between life and death, looking down at his shattered body lying in that jungle, he'd only been able to think that he was better off dead, that he'd let down another bunch of guys, and that at least he'd spared Jacko this by sending him away. Later, as he lay in one of an endless sequence of hospital beds, he'd got the news that Jacko was dead too, from blood poisoning after stepping on a bamboo-stick booby trap. It was almost the last time he'd shed tears over anything. Hating himself for being the worst sort of emotional coward, for causing pain to someone because it was easier than being honest.

He'd wept brief bitter tears for Sharon after her death, but it was almost the same pain over again: he was still hurting people by being so much less than they thought he was, by being afraid of emotion, by being unable to give himself. Since then, his life had been mere existence, a dogged submersion in work and in the pursuit of some notion of justice, that had been every bit as soulless as Sharon had accused him of becoming. A fitting punishment for a man who was incapable of love.

Skinner realised he'd pushed the possibility of sleep even further away with all his brooding. Seeing Mulder today had been far harder than he'd expected. Unbearable to hear himself snap and snarl like that, but he didn't dare let any softness seep into his voice or his eyes. For tomorrow's meeting he would have to be armoured against his own feelings. Mulder deserved to be loved, but by a better heart than his. Incapable of love. Even as he labelled himself he knew it was no longer true. Unworthy of love was the stark truth. Just as well, then, that Mulder's hero-worship would soon die a natural death. No future there. Grabbing for the whisky bottle, Skinner scowled and headed for the stairs. Maybe oblivion could be induced.

Two hours later he woke up with a start, his head pounding, every joint aching. He felt as bad as he had when he was first out of the hospital. So much for working all the hours and hoping to blot out all thoughts of... Maybe now was the time to take some of those fancy pills he'd been sent home with. He certainly couldn't sleep with this pain and he needed to be as alert as possible for that 8.30 meeting in the morning. He swung his legs down off the bed and padded off in the direction of the bathroom. He knew he probably shouldn't mix medication with alcohol, but right now, he didn't much care if he lived or died. He just wanted the pain to go away. All the pain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bluish light of the television screen washed over Mulder's face. The VCR was rewinding the third tape and Mulder couldn't remember a single one of the so-called "erotic" encounters that had played out in front of his unseeing eyes. He was weary with turning the same thoughts over and over: Walter at the office looking ill and strained, Walter carrying him out of that ravine like the ultimate action hero, Walter lying asleep looking like every wet dream he'd ever had, made flesh... Jesus, don't think of flesh, not of his flesh, not of your own, aching to be touched... to touch him... Christ, the man was stubborn. Why was it so hard for him to believe that someone loved him? How could he be so good at the heroics, so capable, so caring, and so fucking blind about what had really happened?

Because the feelings weren't all just on his side. Mulder had tortured himself over that for long enough, cursing himself for falling in love with the straightest man he'd ever known. Then he'd looked at the evidence, used his skills as a profiler and begun to see a different story. With the chopper clattering outside and Scully heading their way with fire in her eyes, it hadn't been the best moment for a heart to heart, but that "thank you... for everything" had been charged with far more than the obvious. It could have been "thank you for saving my life", "thank you for pretending you didn't hear me call your name in my dreams", but Mulder knew there was more to be said.

There'd been other moments like that, moments when there had been a communication between them that went beyond words. And of course, he now knew that Walter Skinner wasn't an unrelentingly straight arrow. He'd loved Jacko, even if he couldn't admit it to himself. Mulder believed that Skinner loved him. He thought of Bach and firelight, of bed sheets and moonlight, of uncertainty masking itself as brusqueness, of stupid, self-denying... what? Propriety, the damn rulebook, misplaced protectiveness? If only the pigheaded, wonderful man would see that Mulder didn't give a damn about propriety or the rulebook, that he didn't want to be protected from finding out that Walter was only human, that he knew what Walter was and loved him for it. All of it.

He wanted to confide in Scully, to pour out all his hurt and desolation to his partner, but he knew he could tell her only a fraction of the story. Walter's past, Jacko, they weren't his stories to tell. How could he explain the way he felt about Skinner, how he understood why Skinner was acting the way he was, without betraying things his boss had confided in him only with reluctance? Besides that, he wasn't at all sure how Scully would react to finding out that he had fallen in love with Walter.

He knew that she cared about his happiness, as he did hers. They neither of them had had much chance of a life outside of work and he would hope that she would see how much this meant to him, how serious he was about it. Of course, that might be the very thing that worried her: that he was in so deep, when the object of his adoration, the man he loved, their boss of all people, was apparently trying to walk away from it all. He could hear Scully's voice of sanity telling him it was all a terrible idea, that he would be hurt, that every rational consideration should tell him this was a recipe for disaster...

How could he tell her he didn't give a shit about rational or sane, that he would risk just about everything to make this work. Just about everything. That was the crux, he realised. Would he give up his search for the truth, his quest for Samantha, would he leave the Bureau and the X-Files to be with Walter? At this point he honestly didn't know. He knew how he felt, how he was suffering now, without him. How much satisfaction or reward would there be in a life so incomplete?

Today, when Skinner had frozen him out with that curt dismissal, he'd felt like shaking him and then kissing him. They'd never even kissed, not really. He could remember the roughness of Skinner's parched lips against his own, that night in the weather station, he could remember the weight and mass of Skinner's unconscious body in his arms... Mulder turned his face against the warm, smooth leather of the couch and tried to imagine it was a bare scalp or a muscled shoulder. Behind him "Bath-house Big Boys" began to replay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Trying to focus on the display of the bedside clock, Skinner grabbed for it and fell out of bed. The red numbers calmly shone 02.07 as he lay groaning. He felt like shit. His ears were ringing, his sight even more blurred than usual and his body felt as heavy as lead. Those tablets were less then useless. It was nearly three hours since he'd taken them and he felt as bad as ever. Rolling groggily to his knees, he hauled himself upright and snatched at his glasses on the nightstand. He hooked them on but had to put his hand up against the lenses to double check because his vision was no better than before.

What was going on? Swaying drunkenly, he made it to the bathroom and sat heavily on the toilet lid. One sight of himself in the unforgiving halogen lighting and the big mirror and he immediately felt worse. His face was grey and haggard, his T-shirt was soaked with sweat and worst of all, he could see two of these pathetic visions peering back at him. He tried to lean closer to the mirror and the room spun round him. He closed his eyes and held onto the counter top for dear life, while he struggled with the cap of the pharmacy bottle and dry-swallowed two more of the tablets.

His icy feet brought him to his senses again, and he realised he must have nodded off, still sitting on the toilet lid. How long had he been there? Long enough to get chilled and feverish, his body told him. Some hot tea would help, and then he'd go back to bed. Sleep it off. He made it to the head of the stairs and almost fell as a wave of vertigo washed over him. God, he was as weak as a kitten, and why did his arms and legs feel so heavy, so hard to move?

The kitchen clock said 03.19 when he could stand steady enough to make the numbers stop sliding. The best part of an hour to get downstairs, sheesh, he was in worse shape than he'd realised. He felt suddenly dizzy and nauseous and staggered to the sink. Bending over the bowl, dry heaving, he felt as ill as he could ever remember feeling. Turning the cold water on, he pulled his glasses off and dipped his head to wash his clammy face. The stream of water seemed to twist off horizontally and he couldn't judge the distance from his cupped hands. He reached for the glasses and his uncoordinated fingers dashed them off onto the floor. The roar in his ears was deafening now and the crack of his head against the cabinet door hardly registered as he slid down onto the tiled floor, unconscious.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Krycek looked over his shoulder into the rear of the ambulance and grinned smugly. The kidnapping had gone perfectly. He hadn't even had to get Skinner downstairs; the man had helpfully passed out on the kitchen floor. Manoeuvring the big man out to the vehicle had been tricky on his own but now he had his prize. He'd seen at least one set of curtains twitching as he loaded the gurney in the back, and it had been a stroke of genius to use the cover of an EMT to get Skinner away. Of course that wunderkind Fox Mulder would figure it out eventually, but he was prepared for that. All he needed was a day, or even a few hours for the drug to wear off and for Walter Skinner to accept what fate had thrown in his lap: a more-than-willing participant for his macho games. He wouldn't simper like Mulder, or fawn at the AD's domination. He'd match Skinner punch for punch, power-game for power-game. He was a player worthy of the man and Skinner would see that as soon as Krycek took him for the first time. It was still dark enough to make his route to their destination relatively safe. "Relatively safe"-those words rang in his ears from another time and place. Walter Skinner was going to discover just how relative and how safe, very soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully thought that if Mulder aimed one more rubber band at her she'd put him over her knee and spank him. She was trying to study some slides of blood cultures that the lab had just sent over, relating to a possible new case: a series of mysterious deaths in Seattle. The magnifying lamp was angled to illuminate the detail of the slides as well as possible in these less than ideal conditions, but she was going to give in and take the whole lot back out to the lab at Quantico if she had to field one more projectile from her partner across the room.

She was glad that Mulder's de-briefing was a solo affair this time. It was unlike Skinner to keep them waiting for a meeting, but whatever the reason for his delay, by the time he did arrive he would undoubtedly be in a less than cheerful mood and all too ready to take it out on Mulder. Especially since the subject of the de-briefing was Mulder's recent foray into the jungle.

Mulder had seemed almost keen to get to the meeting at the appointed time, a wonder in itself, but just as she was settling down to use his desk for her own report-writing, he'd reappeared, looking subdued and...if she didn't know him better, she'd have said anxious. Her curiosity piqued, Scully had studied him covertly. He flung his notes down on a chair absently and began to pace. Then he started gnawing on his lip, then raking his hair with long, distracted fingers, then checking his watch every few minutes. Finally, she'd given in and asked him outright what was going on. He'd been cagey, said only that Skinner hadn't shown up and that Kimberly was worried. She's not the only one, Scully thought.

When Mulder rang upstairs for the third time in an hour, she'd had enough. She laid down her pen deliberately and closed her notebook pointedly.

"I'm sure Kimberly will let you know as soon as Skinner arrives. You could be checking the site reports from Seattle if you want something to fill in the time. We can get on the 2pm flight if we get the 302, so we don't have a lot of time."

Mulder just looked at her as if she was speaking Swahili. And continued to sit staring at the phone, while making cat's cradles from yet another rubber band. Scully stood and smoothed down her skirt briskly.

"I'm going for a coffee. Can I bring you anything?" No response. "Mulder?"

He looked up at her finally, and she felt a wash of concern at the tension in his face. Suddenly words poured out of him:

"The thing is, I know he's still not well. He shouldn't have come back so soon. Why hasn't he called in though? What if he's ill... really ill again? I think I should check, Scully..."

He was already out of his seat and reaching for his car keys when Scully put a steadying hand on his arm and blocked his flight. She was beginning to think she saw what this was all about: fantastic as it seemed, it fit the facts... If she was right, it was a hell of a thing to come to terms with, and she needed to process the idea a lot more before she talked to Mulder about it. They did need to talk, but right now he needed to be calmed down, needed to be given something practical to do.

"Mulder, you can't go haring off to the AD's home as if you were his keeper." She saw the startled and yet wistful look that flickered over Mulder's face and knew her guess was right. "He's a grown man and even if he is ill, and you don't know that he is, then he won't appreciate you bursting in on him." Another pained expression, as if she'd touched a sensitive spot. Oh Lord, this was worse than she'd feared. "Let's go up and see Kimberly first. Get all the facts and then decide if there's anything we can do. Okay?"

She urged him towards the door, taking his keys out of his unwitting hand and tucking them in her own pocket. No good him driving in this state. He'd zone out and head straight into the Potomac.

On the fourth floor, there was no news and Kimberly was looking harassed. She greeted the two agents as if they might throw her a lifeline. Scully looked between the anxious faces of her partner and Skinner's PA and sighed.

"Okay, I grant you this is unusual. Kimberly: how was the Assistant Director when you last saw him?

Mulder looked sardonically grateful that she was taking his worries seriously at last. He nodded at Kimberly,

"Tell her what you told me, Kimberly."

"Well, it was about 6.30pm yesterday... I'd offered to stay and start processing some of his paperwork, but he insisted I go home. He asked me just to get him a coffee and looked settled in for a long night."

"And how had he seemed during the day?" Scully prompted.

"He was very quiet, even for him." Kimberly cast an uncertain glance at Mulder, as if wondering how far she should go in speaking about her boss. He nodded again. She went on, with more emotion.

"He seemed so single-minded, got through masses of his accumulated papers. I don't think he even stopped for lunch. I poked my head in around noon and he didn't even hear me the first time I called out. He looked as if he'd no idea what time it was. I offered to get him something from the cafeteria, but he said no, just some Tylenol for his headache. When I got back from my lunch he was standing looking out of the window and again he didn't hear me speak.

"He looked..." She paused, searching for the right word, "...sad. I wondered if something had happened while he was on vacation. I mean apart from him having to go after you..." She glanced at Mulder, covering her mouth apologetically, but Scully intervened, crisply:

"Quite. He didn't seem ill, though?"

"Well, no, not exactly. Just tired and kind of... subdued. Like his mind was elsewhere. Do you think he's ill again?" She looked distressed.

"Well maybe he overdid it yesterday, tried to push himself too much too soon. I expect he just slept badly and is catching up now. You've tried ringing his home?"

"Oh yes. Deputy Director Mullins was looking for him and I rang his home and his cell-phone. The cell was turned off, and I got his voice mail at home. I hope he is just resting up."

"I'm sure that's all it is, Kimberly."

Scully took Mulder by the elbow and started moving to the door, but the PA stooped her and handed over a paper.

"I guess you might as well have this. Mr. Skinner must have signed it late last night. There's a note indicating it's to be processed after your 8.30 this morning, but as that's deferred..."

It was their 302. The authorization to pursue the investigation in Seattle. Scully imagined that Skinner had intended to set some very clear limitations on Mulder's scope on this case, limitations to be outlined at the aborted meeting this morning. Still, he had signed the form... she'd just have to try and restrain Mulder's excesses herself.

She took his elbow in an even firmer grasp, and was walking him out, when Kimberly spoke again:

"I'm just not used to him not being here. He's a good boss, Agent Scully. I know he has a reputation for being difficult and surly, but it's undeserved. He's very fair and he's always so polite. Thoughtful too - when I had the 'flu..." She broke off, embarrassed to have said so much. "I just don't like to think of him being ill alone."

Scully could feel Mulder's reaction. His indrawn breath as if he was going to speak, but thought better of it, and a twitch of his arm as if he wanted to run right over to Skinner's apartment now. She was surer than ever now, that her suspicions were right, but here was not the place to start discussing her partner's uncharacteristic and intense interest in his superior's state of health. She smiled reassuringly at Kimberly and steered Mulder out of the office.

They got ten yards down the corridor and Mulder stopped.

"See Scully, something's not right. I've got time to stop by before our flight..."

"Mulder, you are not going to disturb Skinner at home, especially if he is trying to sleep. There's nothing to suggest that anything is seriously wrong. Don't you think you take up enough of the man's time as it is, without harassing him in his own home?"

Mulder looked rebellious, but she gave him a warning glare and he kept silent. It was going to be a long flight to Seattle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Krycek surveyed his surroundings with satisfaction. The insurance pound was in a rundown area of the industrial zone; an anonymous fenced lot with a shabby warehouse attached. One in a block of such lots, many with abandoned vehicles outside. There were dozens of impounded cars and vans here, and even several more ambulances, handed over to the insurance company when some small business went bust. Occasionally, some of the smarter vehicles would be auctioned, but most of them sat here rusting, held against debts that would never be repaid. There was nothing worth stealing and no security worth mentioning.

No one was likely to find them here anytime soon, even Mulder, and they'd be gone in a day or so, as soon as he and Skinner had come to an understanding. He looked over to where the unconscious man lay. A mattress on the floor and few blankets for warmth were hardly suitable for a love-nest but they would do for now. The younger man lowered himself beside Skinner and laid his hand on the man's brow. Still feverish. It was daylight now and he could see how pale Skinner was. He was a little concerned. The effects of the paralysing drug should have worn off by now, but Skinner still lay motionless.

Krycek's fingers trailed down the side of Skinner's face, across the firm lips, and along the stubbled jaw. Looking down the length of the big man's body, he wondered whether to unwrap his present now. Maybe not just yet - he'd had a busy night and in a few hours Skinner would be awake and a lot more fun to play with. One hand ran possessively over the muscles of Skinner's chest as Krycek licked his lips lasciviously. He dragged the blankets over them both and settled himself half-lying over the bigger man. Sleep now, play later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Skinner felt like death. His left arm and leg were numb, everywhere else felt stiff and sore and his head felt as if it would drop off if he moved it. Experimentally, he tried to lift his right arm and nothing seemed to happen, except his joints shrieked an agonising protest.

He kept his eyes closed and waited until the worst of the pain had subsided into a merely inescapable ache. He had vague memories of trying to get downstairs for some reason. Had he fallen, knocked himself out and broken his arm? He was going to have to move if he wanted to get help... if only his head wasn't still pounding... what sort of headache lasted so long and resisted all medication? Ah yes, now he remembered a bit more: Tylenol at work, whisky before bed, at least two double doses of his hospital painkillers during the night... no wonder he'd fallen downstairs. And now he was paying the price: an awesome hangover and some broken bones. More time off work.

Wishing he could at least massage his throbbing temples, he opened his eyes and the daylight pierced him like a sword. Squinting against the assault, he tried to focus on the source of the light and found his head wouldn't move. Broken back? Oh God, that would be poetic justice. You finally decide to let your emotions loose, wallow in self-pity and in the realisation that you've ruined yet another chance of finding love, drink yourself into a stupor and manage to end your career and your non-existent love life in one fell swoop. That's impressive, Walt.

Retribution at last. Twenty-eight years too late for Jacko, two years too late for Sharon, two days too late for Mulder. He'd hurt them all. And loved them all. There, it was said, loved them all. Of course he'd loved Jacko... the memories came crowding in. A sandy, tousled head against his shoulder, a crinkled smile, an adoring presence at his side every day. Jacko, even younger than he, had known what he wouldn't accept: that love was love, there were no rules, you couldn't plan it, it just happened. He'd loved Sharon too, no doubt about that. He'd admitted that, of course, but he still hadn't done a very good job at it. He'd thought he was protecting her, keeping her safe from the evil that could snuff out a life as easily as it had taken Jacko's. But all he'd done was make Sharon feel alone, feel cut off from him, feel as if she took up space in his life he gave only grudgingly...

And Mulder... it was past time to say it. He loved Mulder. Loved him long before he went into that jungle to search for him. Loved him as long ago as that nightmare with the murdered hooker... and now he'd ruined that love too.

He lay still for a while, exploring his pain, knowing he deserved it. After a few minutes it occurred to him that something was wrong with the window. Unable to swivel his head, he could see only a slanting segment of it, but it was a narrow vertical, smeared with grime. He'd been neglecting himself and his surroundings he knew, but his windows weren't that dirty and in any case both the living room and his bedroom had wide windows, nothing like this shape... So where was he? By rolling his eyes until they ached as much as the rest of him, he could see a sagging stained ceiling with the empty fittings for strip lights, a panelled partition wall with peeling green paint, and what looked like an old wooden filing cabinet.

He couldn't lift his head enough to see his own body, just a tiny patch of one shoulder where his head was slightly tilted to one side. White T-shirt and something drab green over it, like an army-issue blanket.

He'd tried everything to move even a little finger, but nothing worked. He literally couldn't move a muscle. His body felt as heavy as wet sand and about as much use.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder sneaked a glance at his watch as he drove: 12.52pm. He wasn't going to make that flight to Seattle. Scully would hunt him down and skin him alive for dumping her yet again, but for once he didn't care. No way could he get on a plane to the other side of the country without knowing that Walter was okay. Over the past few hours he'd come to a decision: he would sacrifice his career, leave the Bureau, give up the X-Files to be with Walter. The thought made him feel shaky, but not so shaky as the thought of a life without Skinner in it.

He turned into Skinner's tree-lined road and pulled up outside the neat quiet house. He could see Skinner's dark sedan parked in the driveway, which reassured him a little. Let's not assume anything, he told himself and rang the doorbell. He waited a few moments, then got out the key Skinner had given him and used it. A tiny flicker of guilt was speedily pushed aside and he stepped into the hallway.

Utter silence. Nothing obviously untoward, but the feeling of an empty house. Mulder walked to the foot of the stairs, calling Skinner's name. Visions of Walter comatose in bed sent him racing up, two steps at a time. Empty bedroom, empty bed. Covers flung back as if someone had just got up. Mulder sank down on the edge of the bed, sliding his hand over the cold sheets. Maybe he's in another room. He kept a whisper of hope alive as he leapt up and headed for the bathroom. Which would be worse: to find the man he loved too ill to cry out, or not to find him at all? The bathroom was as empty as the bedroom, Skinner's shaving kit laid out neatly on the counter and an open bottle of tablets. He'd check them later, he had to keep searching.

Downstairs again, after a glance into the guest room showed it exactly as he had left it only days ago: the bed roughly made, the closet door still wide after he had angrily flung his few clothes into his bag and left. The living room was uninhabited too, and that just left the kitchen. White tiles, white cabinets, all immaculate, nothing to see, except... a pair of wirerim glasses crushed up against the baseboard. He looked in alarm at his own feet, had he stepped on them just now? No, they were further along than he had stood, but someone had trampled them. Carefully, he picked them up. Shards of glass from one lens tinkled onto the tiles, there was a smudge of red on the edge of the twisted frame. Fear like a stone settled in his belly. Suddenly something about the fragile, intimate object seemed unbearably poignant and a hoarse "No." broke from him. Slamming his fist into the counter, he railed against whoever had done this, against an unseen evil that had endangered Walter just because he had dared to align himself with Mulder's cause.

His hands were shaking, tightening on the mangled frame of the glasses, until he got control of himself and laid them down while he ran cold water into a glass he found by the sink. The glass nearly undid him again, juddering against his teeth as he tried to drink. In his mind's eye, Walter's hand holding this glass.

Carrying the glasses with him, needing the connection to Skinner, he revisited every room in the house. Forcing himself to look for clues, hating the selfish emotion that made it hard to breathe as he looked through the closets, fingering Walter's immaculate suits and orderly piles of pressed shirts. Walter's scent was everywhere, on the towels in the laundry basket, on the pillows on his bed... He sat on the bed and sorted through the things on the nightstand. A sheet of summary notes for the meeting he and Skinner should have had this morning. He picked out the words "unwarranted expense" and '"other pending cases" scrawled in Skinner's unmistakable hand. A new John Le Carré novel, a nearly empty whisky bottle, the Neruda again, a page marked. Wishing he didn't need to do this, he read:

"If I die, survive me with such a pure force

you make the pallor and the coldness rage;

flash your indelible eyes from south to south,

from sun to sun, till your mouth sings like a guitar."

He couldn't read on, his eyes burning with hot, unshed tears. A sudden unthinkable thought struck him and he ran to the bathroom, snatching up the bottle of tablets. He counted them out into his palm. Twenty left, more than two-thirds of the bottle. Surely not enough gone to... he shouldn't even think that Skinner would contemplate suicide. The man was a rock, sane and solid and sensible. He pocketed the tablets. Strength and fortitude were what Walter had. His face crumpled with emotion again as he drummed reassurance into himself.

No clothes missing that he could tell, not even jeans or sweats. Shaving kit still there, glasses still there. Medication still there. Skinner had not planned to leave, or had planned to make it look as if he hadn't planned... Mulder's head was spinning with alternatives. Downstairs again, he leafed miserably through the albums and books and crumpled notes in the living room. He switched on the answering machine in case there was anything helpful and heard Skinner's deep, measured voice requesting callers to leave a message. That voice. His voice. Mulder dropped his head into his hands and didn't register Kimberly's anxious enquiry following on from Walter's words.

It was clear that Skinner had been in a bad way these last few days. Mulder could read the evidence of desolation as clearly as if he'd witnessed it. If he had needed any confirmation of his conviction that Walter loved him, here it was. He refused to contemplate the idea that they wouldn't get a second chance to each say what they felt. If Walter were dead he would know it. There was nothing scientific about that, just a gut certainty. He felt drained with worry, raw with longing, thickheaded with helplessness, but somewhere inside was still a grain of hope. He squeezed the wirerims in his coat pocket and vowed not to ever give up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Skinner heard distant footsteps and felt his heart rate climb in anticipation of finally meeting his captor. By his reckoning, he had been alone here for over two hours. The sun had moved across two of the narrow windows that Skinner could see and he found he could move his head just slightly now, a range of maybe only 10 degrees, but still something. Maybe he wasn't permanently paralysed. As good as, for the moment, though. Helpless, a pawn in some game he knew nothing about.

The footsteps came to a halt outside the room and he heard a chain rattling and the screech of a metal door opening on rusting hinges. An all-too-familiar voice reached him:

"So... Sleeping Beauty has woken up at last. Time to steal another kiss, I think."

Skinner's mind was reeling. Krycek! What the hell was he doing back in DC? No chance for further speculation, as strong fingers dug into his shoulders and he was hauled up into a sitting position.

"Let's get reacquainted, shall we, Walter?"

A hand forced his head back and a hard mouth descended on his. It was such a shock, he almost choked on the invading tongue. Krycek tasted of bitter coffee and something smoky. Skinner focussed all his will on trying to clench his teeth hard, but his muscles refused to co-operate and Krycek was relentless, scouring Skinner's gums and palate with strokes of his demanding tongue, keeping a bruising grip on Skinner's jaw with his left hand. The helplessness was unbearable.

Finally, he was released and fell back heavily onto the mattress. Sitting back on his heels, Krycek surveyed his prisoner. His hair was longer than Skinner remembered, shaggy and falling over his brow, he was thinner too and there was something stiff about the way he rested his weight on his left arm...

"Not bad, Walter, but a little unresponsive. I thought you'd be ready for some fun by now." He lifted Skinner's arm and let it fall inertly back. "What did you take, Skinner?" He sounded angry now. "What I put in the whisky wouldn't have done this, what else did you take?" He leaned down menacingly, his bitter breath washing across Skinner's face. "Never mind. I'm sure you'll warm up nicely once I get started on you." He ran his hand down Skinner's chest. "Oh yes, this is going to be a lot of fun..."

He stood and straddled Skinner with his booted feet, looking as if he was contemplating a delicious buffet.

"Time to inspect my toys, I think." His grin was feral, his green eyes alight with speculation. He dropped to his knees, still straddling Skinner's thighs and reached round to a back pocket. He flicked open a nasty looking knife and trailed it along Skinner's biceps.

For the first time, Skinner was glad that he couldn't react. In his mind he was sure that he was going to die, slowly and painfully. All there was between him and this man was hatred and violence. They both had scores to settle and fate had decreed that this time the luck was with Krycek. Skinner would die and this particular game would be over. If he had his faculties, he'd make it as hard for Krycek as he could, he wouldn't die quietly. But he could barely blink, let alone throw a punch, so he imagined it would be lingering and messy. The thought sickened him.

Krycek put his hand inside the neck of Skinner's T-shirt and gathered up the length of the sleeve, slicing it through with the knife. He repeated the action with the other sleeve and peeled the front half of the shoulders away from Skinner's body. The blade skimmed along the exposed collarbones, then like some manic sushi chef, Krycek severed the front of the shirt into two parts and whisked the dismembered garment off. His hand kneaded the muscles of Skinner's chest. Skinner noticed for the first time that he was wearing black leather gloves.

"Very nice, Walter. Getting value for money from your health club membership, I see." He stroked possessively across a nipple and pinched hard.

"Quite the macho man. No hair on top, but plenty here. Maybe I should shave you, huh?" He grabbed a tuft of dark curls and sheared them off with a slip of that slender blade. "Let's see what else we have here..." A dangerous sibilant purr.

He shifted lower on Skinner's legs and slid his gloved hand down over the hard belly and inside the waistband of the dark grey boxer briefs. One leather-sheathed finger ran along under the band, lifting it teasingly away from the skin, its owner watching Skinner's face intently.

"Or maybe we'll try and guess what's in the parcel first..." He cupped his hand around the bulge of Skinner's genitals and squeezed. Skinner closed his eyes. The rough massage continued and Skinner shut his mind to what was happening. Why couldn't the bastard just slit his throat and be done with it?

Krycek had one hand on his own crotch and was massaging himself through his jeans, in time with the squeezes he gave Skinner. He was panting and rocking against Skinner's thighs, but suddenly he stilled.

"I'd heard you were a big boy, Walter. Too much man for little Foxy-Woxy I'm sure. Let's see if you're man enough for Alex."

One last grope and two quicksilver slashes and the briefs were dissected and thrown across the room where the ruined T-shirt had gone. Skinner was naked. Krycek was beaming.

"Oh they lied, Walter. You're not big, you're a fucking stallion."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder had collected his few finds - the tablets, a dark hair he'd found in the kitchen sink, too long to be Walter's, and the bottle of whisky from the bedside table, all secured in evidence bags. He locked them in the trunk of his Taurus and scanned the neighbourhood. It was a quiet road, most of the occupants out at work at this hour. A movement caught his eye. Someone was beckoning to him from behind the curtains of the house directly opposite Skinner's.

He walked up the driveway and the door opened as he reached it. An elderly lady, bent and leaning heavily on a cane, grabbed his wrist as he tried to show her his ID, and pulled him after her into the house, with surprising strength. She led him into an elaborate parlour and pushed him down into an armchair.

"You're looking for Mr. Skinner." It was a statement, not a question, and was accompanied by a piercing look from pale blue eyes. Mulder nodded and tried to introduce himself again, but the woman was bursting to tell him what she knew and waved his badge aside.

"I'm glad to see he has someone to worry about him. I can't believe a lovely man like that hasn't got a wife. But I've seen you here before, haven't I? Work with him, is that it? I love to see you young men in your smart suits, young people take no pride in their appearance nowadays... a clean-cut young man in a nice suit is a pleasure on the eye. Your Mr. Skinner is always so well turned out, even on the weekend..."

"Ma'am..." Mulder could see this monologue running on for hours and meanwhile Walter was God knew where... "Have you any idea where Mr. Skinner is?"

"Why yes, young man, that's what I'm telling you. He's in the hospital."

Oh God, he's had a relapse, Mulder felt successive panic and relief and panic again. Being in the hospital was better than some of the possibilities he'd been facing. But surely he wouldn't go without his glasses, or any clothes?

"Did you see him leave, Ma'am?"

"Yes, dear. If you didn't interrupt I'd tell you the whole story."

Mulder sighed. It was probably easier to just let her tell her news in her own way. It was more than likely the most exciting thing that had happened to her in ages and she was relishing the telling of it.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am. I'm just worried about Mr. Skinner. He's my boss at the FBI and he hasn't been well lately."

"Oh I know all that, dear, I've not lost my marbles yet you know. Mr. Skinner talks about you sometimes - you'd be Agent Mulder, right?"

"Yes, Ma'am, and I'm sorry for assuming..."

"Now you're doing it again. I'm trying to tell you, if you'd let me get the words out." She fixed him with a formidable glare, then seemed to see his agitation and patted his hand.

"There, there. You don't want to take me too seriously. I can see you're anxious about your friend. He doesn't look after himself you know. I told him the other week that he was working too hard, that he should take a vacation, somewhere nice and warm. Well he told me he was going to some tropical island, but it didn't seem to do him much good - put him in the hospital, as I heard it.

"He's very good to me, you know. Looks in on me every few days, checks on me if he sees my curtains still drawn. Last winter when I had that fall, he was the one who found me, got the ambulance and all. He's a real gentleman, your Mr. Skinner, for a young man. Reminds me of the young men when I was in my hey-day... If I was a few years younger I'd set my cap at Walter Skinner, no mistake..."

She slipped into reverie, smiling to herself and smoothing the lace ruffles on her dress. Mulder wondered whether it was worth the risk of interrupting again. All her "your Mr. Skinner"s were getting to him. He'd opened his mouth when she started up again:

"I got up at about 4am to make myself some tea. I don't sleep well these days, my arthritis plays up in the night and it's worse if I stay in one position... So I was just standing in the window here, seeing if the rain had stopped and I see this ambulance pull up outside Mr. Skinner's. I was worried because I knew he'd been ill recently and he'd only gotten in from work a few hours before - like I say, he works far too hard. Then I was thinking, selfish I know, but when you're my age... anyway, I was thinking that he'd said he would come across and look at my roof on Saturday and if he was ill... well, I hate to think of him being ill, but that roof is such a worry. He really looks after me, you know. Gets my groceries along with his own, fixed my security system just like the one he has, there are some villains out there these days you know..."

Mulder couldn't stop himself butting in:

"So the EMT's took him away in the ambulance?"

"I'm just getting to that, Agent Mulder. I saw the young man wheeling a gurney into the house and I thought, oh dear he must be really ill if he can't walk, and maybe I should tell someone - I guess I was thinking of you, dear, seeing you around so much lately, but I didn't know how to let you know... next thing, the young man is back out with the gurney and I can see poor Mr. Skinner looking not at all well. And only one blanket over him on a cold night like it was, and having to lie out in the air while the young man struggled with the doors and all, you'd think they'd send two of them, wouldn't you?"

"Excuse me Ma'am, there was only one EMT? This could be very important Ma'am." Mulder was sitting forward trying to keep his voice calm, not to betray the tension he felt.

"Just the one, wasn't that what I just said? He must have been new at the job, too, he didn't seem to know how to load the gurney in the back. Even I know that, I love those hospital shows on TV... I hope Mr. Skinner is going to be all right. You know he picks my daughter up from the airport when she comes to visit, such a kind man..."

Mulder was struggling not to grab the old dear by the shoulders and shake the information out of her...

"Ma'am, did you by any chance happen to notice the name on the ambulance?" Holding his breath, praying for some good luck...

"Northfield. I noticed because my daughter was dating a Wayne Northfield last year and he was a real nice young man too - not so smart as you and Mr. Skinner of course, but he was assistant manager of a big store in Kansas City and although I'd hoped, I don't think Mr. Skinner was taken with my daughter, seemed to me like he had his mind on someone else..."

"Thank you. Ma'am. You've been very helpful. I wish more people were as observant as you. I'll be sure to give Mr. Skinner your good wishes when I see him."

"Oh, you're off then? I could make you a cup of tea? You young folks are always rushing everywhere... I'm glad I could help. You go check on Mr. Skinner now, and tell him not to think of my roof, I dare say it will wait another week or so..."

Mulder backed gratefully down the driveway, the old lady still nodding and waving. He climbed into the car and gave himself a moment to process what he knew and what he suspected.

He'd be willing to bet that Walter was not in any hospital. He'd probably been drugged and then whoever it was had come back and boldly taken the unconscious man away in the ambulance. But only one kidnapper? If this was a Consortium plot, surely they'd send at least two, to make it look authentic and in case Skinner struggled. One man acting alone then... Unless this was related to something in Skinner's past, something not connected to the X-Files, there was only one name that came to mind. Mulder couldn't begin to fathom why Alex Krycek would risk his own safety to come out of hiding and take some petty revenge on Skinner, but who knew what went on in that ratbastard's twisted mind...

Mulder thought about the whisky bottle and the tablets and the black hair he'd bagged as evidence. If that hair was Krycek's they'd get him on the DNA, but that would take days through channels... He really didn't want to make this official. It would only make more trouble for Walter and the bureaucratic machine moved too slowly in any case.

He called Kimberly and told her to sign Skinner in for another sick day. He deflected her questions as best he could, grateful when she picked up on his deliberate vagueness.

"I'll fend off the enquiries, Agent Mulder, don't you worry. Just you find him." She sounded vehement.

Mulder was beginning to realise that other people knew the Walter Skinner it had taken him so long to recognise. He had a lot of lost time to make up for and if he was right and it was Alex Krycek behind this, Walter was in deep shit. It was time to turn to very unofficial channels. His cell-phone rang just as he was about to key Frohike's private number.

"Mulder, it's 1.58, the plane leaves in two minutes. I take it you're not coming to Seattle?"

Oh shit. Scully. No point in trying to fob her off with excuses.

"No Scully, I'm not. One of W... um, Skinner's neighbours saw him being taken off in an ambulance in the early hours. It just looks suspicious..."

"It's okay, Mulder. I understand. I hope it's good news."

Mulder was stunned.

"Thanks, Scully. I don't know what to say."

"He's a good man, Mulder."

"Yeah. He is. You'd better go. I'll let you know... thank you, Scully."

The connection was broken and Mulder just sat, swallowing down the tightness in his chest that he realised he'd been carrying about for hours, maybe days now. Scully was... amazing. And Walter was... the tightness was back, and he speed-dialled Frohike.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Think about baseball scores, think about tax returns, think about all the reports waiting on his desk. Think about anything but the probing fingers and the hot mouth that were exploring him with intimate thoroughness. Skinner was in purgatory. With the most exhausting effort of will he could make a single muscle in his arm or leg twitch, but the limb wouldn't move by so much as a inch. He could blink, roll his head a little, swallow with difficulty, but that was it. Whatever effect the cocktail of medications and alcohol had had on his system, it was taking far too long to wear off. His head was clearer, but that had taken nearly twelve hours, as near as he could judge, and it actually made his ordeal worse.

He could feel every lick and nibble and tweak of Krycek's mouth and hands on his naked body. He had no control over his own muscles, but they were far from inactive. The stimulation was having its effect, however much he loathed himself for reacting to it.

"That's better, Big Boy, signs of life at last... I knew you couldn't resist me."

Krycek was licking down the hollow of his armpit and across to his right nipple and suddenly he bit the sensitive flesh hard. Skinner felt his back arch at the pain, but Krycek tongued the nipple and blew on the damp flesh, making it peak. His hand was sliding down Skinner's belly.

"Lovely. A real FBI Calendar Boy, aren't you? I only got a glimpse last time, before you banished me to the balcony... That wasn't very hospitable, Walter, but I understood. Foxy Baby was there, and you didn't want to make a scene... Well, we're alone now and I'm going to show you some real Russian hospitality..."

Krycek sat up and waited to see if Skinner would look at him. Skinner kept his head resolutely turned as far away as his protesting muscles would let him. An iron grip on his already bruised jaw turned him back to face his tormentor.

"Don't be shy now, Walter. You're going to be such fun to play with."

The pincer grasp left his jaw and he saw Krycek slowly peel the leather glove off his right hand. Two hands, one bare, one still gloved, spread his thighs and a long finger stroked along his flaccid penis and flicked against his scrotum.

Oh Christ. Let me not get hard for him. Think of cold showers, think of paperwork, think of meetings...

A warm palm cradled his cock, lifting it. A fingernail was drawn lightly along the underside, grazing the vein, the slightly rough pad of the finger touched the bunch of nerves just behind the head.

Skinner arched off the bed, involuntarily, and the gloved hand descended on his bare hip and held him down. Again the bare hand caressed his cock and it was no longer as limp as it had been.

"To think you've been wasting this on Mulder. Really, Walter, I thought you had more taste... Such a delicious piece of meat..."

Meetings, think of meetings. Boring budget meetings, expense reports, oh Christ no, that made him think of Mulder and...

"Oh Walter, you are enjoying yourself aren't you? Such an improvement! This deserves a pat on the head at least..."

Skinner saw Krycek lick the palm of his hand, and tried to roll his head away. It was painfully forced back to face the glittering eyes of his captor. With deliberate slowness, the damp hand enfolded his twitching penis and began to polish the crown. Rhythmic strokes, hard and then soft, working him masterfully.

He didn't understand what Krycek's game was. Why the sexual teasing, why not just torture him and then kill him? Except this was torture, of the worst kind. All those references to Mulder... what could Krycek know? Was this to get revenge on him or to punish Mulder? Don't think of Mulder, don't think of his fingers on your cock, of his eyes watching you...

Green, ice-cool eyes watched him like a cat toying with a mouse. Then the dark head dipped and the stroking hand shifted to fondle his aching balls, as a warm, wet tongue lapped the moisture from the slit of his unwilling erection. He fought the familiar tightening in his groin... he wasn't going to last much longer...

"Don't fight it, Walter, you're doing so well... I always knew you were a hard man. It's time to bring Ivan out to play, don't you think?"

Skinner could only watch as Krycek began to unbutton his jeans.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Make some more coffee, Mulder. It'll be a while yet." Frohike's voice was understanding and he gave Mulder a reassuring shove in the direction of the kitchen.

"How's he doing?" Byers looked up from the printout that was cascading over his knees and around his feet.

"Not so good. I don't know if he's hoping or dreading it'll be Krycek." The little man pushed his glasses up on his nose, and cleared his throat awkwardly. "That Russian slime has a history with both him and Skinner, there's no knowing what he might do..."

"What's this thing with Skinner anyway? I thought Mulder didn't trust the guy." Langly didn't even turn from the screen where he was flicking between hyperlinks faster than the eye could read.

"Where have you been, Langly? Even I've noticed the way Skinner's name has been cropping up more and more in Mulder's conversation. And remember that check he got us to run on that covert 'Nam outfit? That was Skinner's lot. The guy's a war hero, not to mention a hunk." Frohike smirked as two pairs of eyes swivelled to his in astonishment.

"What can I say? The man is prime beef, a serious stud, the most fucking alpha male I've seen in a long time..." He grinned again and muttered something about seeing how the coffee was coming. Byers and Langly looked at each other, shrugged and tuned back to their computers.

Mulder and Frohike were carrying in the steaming mugs when Langly's "Got it!" nearly made them drop the lot. They all huddled round the screen where the blond's finger jabbed triumphantly at a name: Bowright Surety Inc.

"Got what, exactly?" Mulder sounded tense and less than impressed.

"This outfit handled the Northfield insurance. When the company went belly up last March, they took possession of all assets until the debts could be cleared. Those assets amounted to four ambulances, a few thousand dollars worth of medical supplies and some office equipment. The office stuff was sold on and the medical supplies bought up by one of the big hospitals. Two of the ambulances were acquired by Carswell Health Services last month and the remaining two are still sitting in Bowright's block of the insurance pound on Kendall, down by the container depot." Langly looked inordinately pleased with himself.

"So let's go check it out..." Mulder was halfway to the door already.

"You don't imagine Krycek is still sitting in the ambulance at the pound, making tea for Skinner, do you?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Langly wished he could take them back. Mulder's shoulders sagged and his face twisted in a grimace of pain.

"I imagine all sorts of things he might be doing with Walter, believe me. And no, I don't expect finding him could be that easy, but I have to try. Hell, what else can I do?"

"It's okay, Mulder. We understand. There may be something to find there anyway." Frohike stepped in, his hand on Mulder's shoulder. "Byers, you carry on checking the hospitals and chivvying your guy on the DNA results. Langly, you get back to seeing what you can find on Krycek's movements lately. I'll go with Mulder and you keep us informed." He steered Mulder to the door. "C'mon, Mulder, we'll find him in time. He's not going to give up on you that easily."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully slammed the SAC's office door and left the man on the outside still halfway through his grovelling apology. Hours on a crowded plane and then an interminable drive from the airport because an overturned tanker had closed the expressway. She'd almost killed SAC Craggs with her bare hands when he'd sheepishly informed her that the killer had been caught by the local police two hours previously and so there was now no case for her to investigate.

She thought of Mulder, getting himself in a state about Skinner and felt a stab of guilt. She hadn't exactly taken him seriously and even if Skinner was only ill again, rather than something worse, Mulder was genuinely worried about him... She'd done a lot of thinking about Mulder and Skinner on the flight. Looking back over the last few weeks in the light of her new insight, it all seemed so clear.

Skinner rushing off to the jungle to rescue Mulder had been unexpected, but in retrospect, she'd noticed less friction between the two men, even before that crisis. When the helicopter lifted off from that hilltop she'd wondered what her two companions weren't saying, but Skinner had been so weak and Mulder so hyper, she'd had her hands full getting them back to civilisation, and she hadn't pursued it. Naturally, she hadn't failed to notice Mulder's extreme reaction to Skinner's relapse, but she'd put that down to delayed shock, and the gratitude of one whose life had been saved. It was obvious now that something far more serious had been brewing.

The two men were in love. She had no doubt of it. She was surprised how little shock she felt. So much was explained by that simple fact. Yet, if it hadn't been for Mulder's bizarre behaviour over the last few days, she might never have known. When she first realised, she'd been hurt that her partner hadn't felt able to confide in her, but she realised that admitting you'd fallen in love with your male boss was not the easiest confession to make. More than that, as she thought about things, she came to the conclusion that it was a very new situation, that the men themselves were only just getting used to the idea. When was the right moment to tell your partner that you were spending the rest of your vacation playing house with the boss?

That was unfair. They weren't playing. It was a hard row to hoe that they had chosen. Both their careers were on the line and recalling Mulder's heartfelt thanks in their last conversation, she guessed he'd thought their partnership was on the line too. Then there was Mulder's quest - she still thought of it that way, despite her own commitment to it. It had cost all of them a great deal over the years, Skinner not least. What if this latest crisis was yet another instance of the bad guys using them against each other? What relationship could withstand the guilt of each party being at risk because of the other? Her partnership with Mulder had only just survived on a few occasions and it was uncomplicated by sex. Bizarrely, thinking about her partner and her boss, she could see what they would love in each other. She owed both these men her support, not her doubts. She called Mulder's cell-phone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Skinner had found the perfect distraction. Alex Krycek's hand might be forcing him to orgasm, Krycek's cock pressing against his thigh, but in his mind he was somewhere else entirely, on a beach maybe, or at his cabin. Somewhere with Fox Mulder. He couldn't stop thinking about Mulder, so he'd decided to give in, to make imagination reality. He regretted the way it made Krycek think he was turning him on, but if it kept him alive...

It was so hard to think... skilled fingers stroked the tightness of his cock, thumbing the beads of moisture welling from the tip, spreading the slickness over his hot shaft. Krycek was working his own cock to hardness with his gloved left hand. He seemed to be merely holding it, but the crown was purpling with the touch.

Skinner closed his eyes and thought of Mulder. Of the smell of his sweat as he carried him through the dripping jungle, of the feel of his skin as he rubbed liniment into abused muscles, of the incredible wonder of feeling another man's hard-on and knowing it was for you. He fixed his mind on the warmth of Mulder's hand holding his, of kisses and tears falling over his lips and eyelids, of a hundred long looks packed with secrets and longing and denial...

He could hear a low moaning and realised it was coming from himself. His vocal cords were loosening. He tried to make a word:

"Ffff... Fohhk..." His throat wouldn't cooperate

"Fuck? Oh I'm gonna fuck you Walter Skinner. That's what this is all about. I've been waiting for this for a long cold time, thinking my warm thoughts and waiting my chance. I'd kind of pictured a more equal situation, but even as a submissive, you're a rare treat. You look like you're really getting into this and the best is yet to come, in a manner of speaking... I'm gonna fuck your face till you can't swallow any more, then I'm gonna turn you over and fuck that sweet ass of yours till you bleed."

He grinned, wolfishly, and gave Skinner's engorged penis a vicious twist. Skinner made a noise that seemed to please Krycek a lot.

Mulder, in the moonlight, leaning over him... he'd woken from a dream to find it come to life in front of him. Mulder, torso like rarest marble in the pale light, a beautiful classical statue, too perfect to touch, too dangerous to dream of...

Two brutal, irresistible pumps on his cock and he was gone, creaming over the hand that held him, over his own sweat-slick belly. His throat gave up the sound at last:

"Fffox!!!" And that heavy, gloved fist smashed into his jaw, slamming his head sideways, spraying blood from his split lip across the mattress.

"What the fuck?" A backhand to punctuate the expletive. "Who the fuck do you think you're with, you fuckhead? There's no fucking Mulder here, Boy, no more fucking Mulder for you ever, Boy, do you hear?"

Fists driving into him, cheekbones and ribs and stomach juddering under the blows on each "fuck". Nowhere to escape to, no way to defend himself, all he could do was keep grinding out that name, the name he thought of him by inside his head, something pure amidst all this filth, spitting blood and leaving his throat burning...

"Fox, Fox, Fox, Fox..."

"Shut the fuck up. You're my fuck toy now, Boy. I'll fill that fucking foul mouth of yours with something better than that fuckstupid name..."

Hard thighs across his chest, pinning his arms, the inhuman left hand clamped excruciatingly on his right ear, holding his head immobile. Fingers opening his battered mouth and Krycek's salty cock rammed, balls-deep, against the back of his abused throat.

Unable to breathe, Skinner felt the blackness settling over him. Unable even to choke, he felt the clotting blood closing off his nose and the smell of it, combined with that of the sweat and semen made him retch, am instinctive, convulsive spasm that pushed Krycek's swollen cock a life-saving inch out of his throat. Sucking in air, he coughed and Krycek laughed nastily:

"A bigger mouthful that that pencil-dick gives you, huh? Now play nice, Boy, and you'll get seconds."

Again he tried to will his jaw to snap shut on Krycek's flesh, again his helplessness mocked him. It was a matter of detaching himself. Retreat inside his head and just remember to breathe. Don't feel the hairy balls against his chin, don't taste the unloved flesh on his tongue, don't smell his own blood heated by his assailant's arousal, pushed into his own mouth on every savage thrust...

Skinner endured. Now would be a good time to do that out-of-body thing, he thought. Go to that quiet place and choose death this time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frohike was driving like a madman. Mulder had to brace himself against the door as they took a corner like a chicane on a racetrack. He clicked off the cell-phone and glanced at his friend.

"Scully's coming back. The case was a done deal by the time she arrived."

Snarling at the late evening traffic, Frohike threw a grin sideways at Mulder as he swerved around an elderly couple in an even more elderly Ford.

"Well, that's good, isn't it? You said she was okay with you and Walter..."

"Yeah... she is. I can't believe she's taking it so well. Me and Walter...oh God, I hope there still is a me and Walter..."

"Hang in there, man. He's one tough cookie, your main squeeze."

"My what? Oh man, don't ever call him that to his face, will you?"

Frohike chuckled, glad to have made Mulder laugh for a change. They were deep in the industrial zone now, a maze of towering storage units, darkened office blocks, chain-link fences and floodlit compounds patrolled by guard dogs. There was very little traffic and the mostly-silent lots were hard to identify. Mulder twisted round in his seat, scanning their surroundings. Grim-faced again.

"Didn't you say it was near the container depot?"

"Yeah, look for the cranes, those huge loading arms should be visible for blocks. And floodlights, it's a twenty-four-hour operation."

Mulder was biting his lip, his knee jiggling with a nervous tic, his fingers drumming on the door panel. Trying to keep the dark thoughts at bay, the mental images of Walter dead or dying.

"There! Go right... next one down, no - blocked, this one, here!"

The car swung up to the vehicle-filled lot and screeched to a halt at a padlocked entry. Mulder leapt out and shook the heavy padlock and chain desperately. To his surprise, the padlock fell open and the chain rattled through the links of the gate and onto the potholed grit roadway. He pushed open the two wire gates and waved Frohike through. As he jogged after the car, his phone beeped again.

"I knew it. That bastard... well if we get him, we've got him. Hey John, thank your friend at the lab, I owe you both."

Frohike climbed out and came over to him.

"That was Byers. It is Krycek. Can you see the ambulance? God, it's vast this place..." Mulder sounded grim.

"They've got all the larger vehicles over there, I think." Frohike waved an arm. "You take the right and I'll take the left side." He ran off, leaving Mulder still getting his bearings.

How could they hope to find Skinner? Krycek could have transferred him to a dozen other vehicles since he was seen in the ambulance this morning. They could be anywhere in the city, in the state, in the country, by now. Mulder made himself stand still and close his eyes for a moment. He slowed his breathing and brought Walter's face into his mind. Strong, gentle. Warm brown eyes, gorgeous mouth... Mulder looked deep into Walter's eyes in his mind and felt a thread of a connection still. Walter was still alive, he knew it.

He ran towards the section where vans, buses, an assortment of other vehicles, all more or less battered looking, was lined up. He heard a low whistle from over to his left. Frohike was waving to him.

"Here are the two Northfield ambulances, but look there..." He gestured to a warped metal door in the side of the low warehouse building. The hasp was folded outward, the line of shadow down the doorframe showing the door was standing slightly ajar. Together, the two men ran up to the unlocked door.

"Two unlocked entries, that's too much of a coincidence. If he's in here, then he's either got very sloppy or he just doesn't care." Mulder looked at Frohike for his reaction. Neither of them voiced the third alternative: or it's already too late.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Krycek had cleaned himself up, slept for half an hour and now was pacing about the room, as pumped up as an athlete before a big race. His jeans still hung open, and his cock was already hardening again. Every time his adrenaline-fuelled circuit of the room brought him level with Skinner, he stroked his own cock. Skinner still lay motionless, daubed with his own blood and with streaks of dried semen, his own on his legs and belly, Krycek's on his face and chest. He watched Krycek with dull eyes, breathing shallowly, each lungful a painful rasp. Probably a broken rib, he guessed. He was still alive. Despite his best efforts to find that bright light he had seen once before and this time walk into it, he was still here in this hell on earth.

Jacko, Sharon, Fox Mulder. Three lives he had touched and walked away from. Three chances, more than most people got. Three failures. This was a fitting end, in the dust, in no-man's land. Krycek was standing over him, pushing down his jeans again, brandishing his cock, laughing his dark laugh.

He felt Krycek rolling him over, willingly buried his face in the filthy mattress. He flinched at the touch of a hand on his bald head. The hand moved over his scalp seductively.

"I've always wanted to do this. It's warmer than I expected. Does Foxy like his slaphead?"

There was a sound from outside, a distant but distinct metallic clinking. Krycek rose and strolled to the grimy window.

"Ah, company's coming. We still have a few minutes, though, I think. Plenty of time to have my wicked way with you..."

He squatted beside Skinner again and caressed his bare back, over and over, sweeping a firm hand from the broad shoulders to the narrow waist, pausing, then curving over first one, then the other, buttock. He cupped both ass cheeks and squeezed hard.

"Gorgeous skin," he muttered.

Pushing Skinner's thighs apart, he settled between them, jeans around his ankles now, thigh to thigh with the bigger man. He spread Skinner's ass and trailed one finger down the cleft, circling the tight anal entrance.

"You're sure you're not cherry, Walter? I don't suppose that cat-dick of Mulder's makes much of an impression. You look quite virginal to me... well not for long."

He spat on his hand and smeared the saliva over his fingers, spat again. Bent and licked slowly along the cleft of Skinner's ass. Skinner groaned.

"You'd better not be calling for your Foxy-baby, Walter. I've still got that knife, remember?"

Skinner felt the heat of Krycek's cock against his anus and tensed. There was a low whistle from outside. Unmistakable, near. Krycek slapped Skinner's ass and pulled back from him.

"Sorry, Walter. Looks like no dessert for you today. I have to be leaving now. I planned to take you with me, of course, but I've no use for a cripple. I guess you and pretty-boy are made for each other. Both of you a disappointment."

He rose and stuffed his fading erection back into his pants. Footsteps were pounding along the corridor outside. He pushed open a window and simply dropped through it into the night.

Skinner's head dropped forward onto the mattress and he started shivering.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder and Frohike ran along the corridor, flinging open doors as they went. Frohike reached the office first and wrenched open the rusty door. He took in the scene before him and then stepped back into the corridor.

"Mulder. Here." Quiet voice, wishing it had better news to bring. As Mulder stepped up beside him in the doorway, Frohike gripped the younger man's shoulder. Mulder looked stricken, leaning against the door, his head whipping back and forth between the way back out in pursuit of Krycek and the sight of the man he loved lying bleeding and naked. He was frozen in an agony of inaction. Frohike nudged him forward into the room.

"Give me your gun and then GO! Go to him. I'll get the bastard." He

took Mulder's gun and turned, then ran off back into the dark lot.

Mulder stumbled forward and fell on his knees beside Skinner. He could hear Skinner's teeth chattering, and he almost laughed. He was alive, he was alive.

Taking off his big wool overcoat, he lay down next to Skinner and covered him. Skinner turned his face slowly towards the gentle touch and Mulder winced at the sight of his torn mouth and all the blood. He drew the back of a finger down Walter's cheek.

"It's okay. I'm here. I'm here," he whispered, not even sure if Skinner could hear or understand. The other man's eyes were dark with pain and Mulder wanted to hold him tight and never let anybody hurt him again. Instead, he had to think - to be practical. He took out his cell phone and called Scully:

"Come and get us, Scully. Byers has the address. Hurry."

He clicked the phone off and turned back to Walter, drawing him tenderly into his arms. He kissed the smooth head tucked under his chin and didn't care that the tears spilled quietly down his face. Skinner shifted uncomfortably in his arms, still shivering.

"I'm sorry. Am I hurting you? I'm sorry." Mulder felt so helpless. He knew Skinner was in pain, and his mind was racing furiously as he ran through a checklist of what might have been done to the man he loved. The cuts and bruises were clear - but the fact that Skinner had been naked when they found him brought a sweeping tide of anger and gnawing worry to Mulder's subconscious. What had Krycek done to him?

"Walter, did he...did he hurt you? Oh what the fuck kind of question is that? Of course he hurt you. I mean..."

Mulder tightened his arms around his boss and Skinner gave a low moan. His dark eyes communicated nothing to Mulder and he wouldn't speak. Mulder did not dare question him further. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know the answers to his questions.

He was grateful beyond belief when Scully appeared. She ran over to them and stopped short.

"Mulder...what the hell?"

She gazed down on Skinner and for a moment her professional mask dropped and Mulder saw her concern, then the doctor was in place and she was kneeling beside the stricken man, checking his injuries.

"Mulder, did you call the paramedics?" she asked.

"Yes. No. God, no. I called you. I wasn't thinking. Shit...We need to get him to a hospital don't we?"

"Yes."

"Shit...he's not going to die is he? He won't talk to me, Scully." Mulder said desperately.

"Well I can't check for internal injuries here, but I think it's very unlikely he'll die, Mulder. As for speaking, he's in shock, deeply traumatised and in pain. I think he's also been drugged. His pupils are dilated." Scully rapped this out with a medical detachment that somehow brought Mulder back down to practicalities.

"We have the ambulance outside. The one he was brought here in. I'll go and get a stretcher from that. I'll drive him to the hospital myself."

Mulder gently disengaged himself from Skinner, grateful to be able to do something useful to help the man, and ran at full pelt out to where the ambulance stood. He quickly located the keys, just as Byers drew up.

"Thank god." Mulder thrust the stretcher at the other man and started pulling him towards the warehouse.

"Where's Frohike?" Byers asked.

"Shit. Shit. You take this and go and help Scully. I'll find Frohike."

Much as it pained Mulder to leave Skinner's side, he knew he couldn't leave Frohike to deal with Krycek alone. He drew the gun he kept in his leg holster and began searching the area. It didn't take him long to find them. After a few minutes he heard the sound of someone talking. He tiptoed closer, and hid behind a parked van, listening to what was being said.

"And that was when I met Marguerite. She taught me everything I know about the arts of romance and the tango. Have you ever tried the tango? Great dance. Where were we? Oh yes, this was 1972. Or was it ' 73?"

"I don't fucking care." a sullen voice replied.

"Am I boring you? So sorry about that. I just wanted to pass the time until Mulder gets here."

"Well he's here now."

Mulder edged around the corner of the van to see Krycek lying on the ground on his front, with Frohike sitting on his back, pointing the gun Mulder had given him directly at the back of Krycek's head. If Mulder hadn't been so furious, the sight might even have amused him.

"You bastard, you fucking rat bastard." Mulder exploded into a chaos of action, getting hold of Krycek and shaking him, slamming his fist into the other man's jaw, but still not managing to wipe the smile off of his enemy's face.

"What's the matter, Foxy? You pissed because I took what you wanted? Because I had what you haven't tasted?"

"You..." Mulder drew back his fist for another punch and then dropped it, the misery coursing through him in a wave. "Why?" he whispered brokenly.

"You aren't the only one who wanted him." Krycek shrugged. "And you sure as hell weren't taking him. Why let a good thing go to waste?" He leered.

"He's a good man. To do something so despicable..." Mulder shook his head. "I hope it was worth it, Krycek, because it's going to prove to be the most painful mistake you ever made." He pulled the other man's hands behind his body and handcuffed them there.

"Ooh, you going to play rough with me, Mulder? Huh?" Krycek laughed. "I don't think so. You and he are both the same. Both soft. I made him hard for me though, Foxy. I bet that's more than you've ever done."

"Shut. Up." Mulder said through gritted teeth, grabbing Krycek's jacket and hauling him back towards the ambulance.

"Mulder, he's just trying to get a rise out of you..." Frohike said, glancing nervously at his friend. He'd never seen Mulder like this before and he wasn't sure what the other man was going to do.

"I got a rise out of Wally-baby," Krycek crowed, struggling in Mulder's grasp, a crazed grin on his face.

Mulder snapped. He stopped suddenly, and threw Krycek to the ground, then he stood behind him and held his gun to the other man's head.

"Any last requests, Krycek?" he said in a dangerously soft tone. "I'm taking requests right now. You've got about 10 seconds to make yours."

"You won't do it." Krycek licked his lips nervously.

"Self defense." Mulder hissed. "I have a witness, don't I, Melvin?"

"Yes, Mulder. You sure as hell, do." Frohike shrugged, casting a malicious grin in Krycek's direction. "Shame though. We never got to 1975 and that was the year my life really took off."

"Oh shut the fuck up." Krycek snarled. "He's just playing. You know that."

"Oh but I don't know. He looks pretty riled to me." Frohike glanced at Mulder, who dug the barrel of the gun into Krycek's neck to illustrate the point.

"What did you do to him, Krycek?" Mulder asked in a dangerous whisper. "Tell me, honestly, and I might decide not to kill you."

"I..." Krycek looked up into Frohike's eyes, trying to read some clue to Mulder's behaviour in them. He found none. "I gave him a drug. Put it in his whisky. Boy, you sure drove that poor bastard to drink quickly, Mulder. He was drowning in the stuff."

"What was the drug?" Mulder reached forward and put his hand into Krycek's pocket. "Is this it?" He fished out a vial.

"Yeah." Krycek said sullenly. "He must have taken something else with it though - sleeping tablets maybe, because he couldn't move when I was...playing with him." He gave a snorting chuckle. "Well, one part of him moved, if you get my meaning..." he broke off with a cry of pain as Mulder's gun struck him across the side of the head. Hard.

"What did you do to him?" Mulder asked again.

"I jerked him off. Then I stuck my cock in his mouth and he deep throated me. He seemed to enjoy that." Krycek ducked his head forward to avoid another blow but none was forthcoming.

"If he enjoyed it so much, why did you beat him up like that?" Mulder asked, trying to shut his emotions off from what he was being told. "Or maybe he wasn't co-operating?"

"He co-operated." Krycek shrugged. "He didn't have any choice."

"So why did you hit him so much?" Mulder said insistently, pressing the cold metal of the gun into the back of Krycek's neck until the other man's face was in the dirt.

"Because he was fucking irritating me, okay?" Krycek hissed. "Stupid bastard didn't realise a good thing when it kidnapped him," he smirked, trying to glance up. Mulder just pushed his neck further down, until he was quite literally eating the muddy gravel.

"I'll ask you again. Why did you hit him?" Mulder demanded for the third time.

"Because he wanted you," Krycek snapped. "Satisfied now? He kept fucking calling for you. He should have just shut the fuck up and then I wouldn't have hit him. I didn't want to hit him. I wanted him to want me. I wanted to fuck him..."

"But you didn't." Mulder released the pressure on Krycek's neck and the other man sat up, breathing heavily.

"In another few minutes I would have done. But you and the cavalry had to show up didn't you?" Krycek said bitterly.

"I think I've heard all I need to from you."

Mulder brought the gun down on the back of Krycek's head and the other man fell sideways, unconscious. Frohike helped Mulder to drag him back to the car and bundle him inside. The ambulance had already left. Mulder speed dialled Scully and found out which hospital she was taking Skinner to and told her he'd join her as soon as he could.

"In the meantime, we have someone to lock up," he told her grimly, speeding towards the Hoover Building as fast as he could in order to off load his prisoner and get to Skinner's bedside.

The only thing that sustained Mulder through the next few hours until he could be with Skinner again, was the thought that the other man had called for him. I was right. He loves me, but the stupid idiot just won't admit it to himself. The thought that Skinner loved him made him feel warm inside, but he was still beset by nagging worries. Supposing this whole thing with Krycek had traumatised Skinner so much that he turned against Mulder? Blamed him even, in some way?

Mulder ran through the hospital like a whirlwind, finding Scully seated by Skinner's bed.

"Déjà vu." She said with a wry smile. "We've been here before, Mulder."

"Yeah. But we're never going to do this again," he said firmly. "How is he?" He glanced down on Skinner's pale form, the bruises on his flesh seeming all the more livid against the pallor of the other man's skin.

"Sedated," Scully told him gently. "He's going to be all right though, Mulder. He's got a broken rib and some bad bruising, but he'll be fine. With some rest, some good nursing..." She gave Mulder a stern glance.

"I can do nursing," Mulder protested.

"Just don't..." Scully put a hand on Mulder's arm. "Don't expect too much, Mulder. I don't know how things are between you, but he might not be ready...he might never be ready."

"I know." Mulder smiled at her wanly and she nodded and left the room.

It was five hours before Skinner awoke. Mulder spent them making a mental map of the other man's face - every line, every feature, every small fold of skin. He memorised the texture of Skinner's fingers, which he held clasped between his own, and gently kissed as he watched Skinner's lying so still.

"I'm not letting you get away from me," he murmured. "You know what you want, you just don't know how to ask for it. I'm not taking any more crap from you, Walter S Skinner. It was me you were asking for. Me you wanted. And me is sure as hell what you're gonna get. " With that resolved in his mind, he settled down and waited for Skinner to wake up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first thing Skinner saw when he regained consciousness was a pair of anxious hazel eyes. Then he heard a voice he'd both longed and dreaded hearing. An unnaturally cheerful voice.

"Morning, Walter. Or should that be afternoon?" Mulder glanced at his watch. "Would you like something to drink?" He poured a glass of water and held it to Skinner's lips, allowing the other man to take a few sips.

"M...Mulder." He managed a gruff whisper. Speech was still painful, his throat raw and his jawbone bruised. "What are you doing here?"

"Rescuing you. Makes a change from you doing the same for me." He saw Mulder trying a watery grin.

"Rescuing? I was...?" The memory assaulted Skinner and he closed his eyes. He started to retch. Mulder's arms slipped immediately around his shoulders, soothing him.

"It's okay. The rat bastard is safely locked up - and trust me, he's got a monster headache after what I did to him."

"What you did...?" Skinner repeated, his eyes wide again. For a moment he knew that he was letting Mulder see his horror at what Krycek had done to him reflected there.

"Yes," Mulder whispered softly, still holding him.

"Mulder, leave me," Skinner rasped, pulling out of Mulder's embrace. The tenderness was more than he could take right now. More than ever he was unworthy of it. He felt cold, physically and emotionally, holding onto normality by a thread. He hunched in the bed, pulling the sheet up to his chin, his back to Mulder.

"No." Determined. Mulder wasn't going to let him retreat this time. He heard Mulder round the bed and crouch down beside him. Wearily he opened his eyes again and saw the stubborn jut of Mulder's jaw.

"I'm not leaving you again, Walter. Look at the shit you got into last time I left you. You clearly can't be trusted on your own."

Trust. There - it was said. Mulder couldn't trust him after all. He'd let the enemy use him, in the worst way. What good was he to Fox as a protector when he couldn't even keep himself out of the hands of a thug like Krycek? He'd forfeited any claim to Mulder's respect when he'd lain there and let his body react to that... his mind recoiled from the memory and he longed for the oblivion of unconsciousness to fall on him again. So tired, he was so tired. If he could just be left alone...

"Please..." God, he sounded so pathetic.

"Ssh." Mulder touched a gentle finger to his bruised lips. "I know all about it. You don't need to tell me now. Tell me when you're ready. When you need to. In the meantime I'm staying. You're allowed to be weak sometimes, Walter. It's okay to accept comfort, to lean on someone else. You don't always have to be the tough guy, being strong for everyone else."

Skinner closed his eyes, and his body began to shake. How ironic he thought, I'm allowed to be weak now. If Mulder only knew... He felt himself held close, heard the whispered words, as full of love as ever.

"Whenever you're ready, big guy. I'll be here. Like I said, I'm not letting you out of my sight, ever again."

How was he going to bear such understanding, such unshakeable belief?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After five days the physical evidence of Skinner's ordeal was healing

but to Mulder he seemed more unreachable than ever. He accepted Mulder's presence listlessly but he had hardly spoken since he'd come round. Mulder couldn't read what was going on behind the sad dark eyes. He was worried.

"I'm taking you home," he announced. "And we are going to talk."

But it wasn't so easy. They sat at opposite ends of the long sofa and Mulder didn't know how to penetrate that stoic armour. He knew about the ways rape victims dealt with their trauma, he knew the psychology of victim guilt, knew about the feelings of self-disgust and worthlessness that could follow such an experience, but that knowledge wasn't enough now. This was too personal, it was his friend, the man he loved, who sat silently at the table as they ate their meal, who gave no clue to his own feelings, who had withdrawn to some place Mulder felt he might never reach. He wanted to just take Walter in his arms and show him that nothing had changed in his heart, but the big man flinched if he so much as put a hand to the broad shoulder. He tried logic:

"Walter, you have to talk to me. It's either me or a Bureau shrink, which would you rather? You can trust me, you know that."

A flash of something so bleak in the stony face, that he reached out involuntarily and clutched at Skinner's wrist. The hand was gently withdrawn. He rose wearily and cleared the dishes. Made coffee and set a mug in front of Skinner. He tried anger:

"Don't you think I know that you're blaming yourself? Shit, Walter, I know all about that and it doesn't help. I never thought you were a stupid man, but this is pointless. Talk to me, damn you!"

He almost slapped the other man as he sat expressionless. His frustration seething in the face of such apparent defeatism. He tried appealing to Skinner's pride:

"You've never given up a battle in your life, you can't tell me you're going to let this defeat you now? Where's that Marine spirit, where's the man who saved my life?"

A shake of the head and at last a response:

"He wasn't real, Mulder. I told you before, I'm no hero. That should be obvious now."

He pounced on the opening:

"No, it's not. Nothing is obvious except that you're shutting yourself off again, and I won't let you. I'm not looking for a hero, just for the man I used to know, who never ducked out of a conflict, who was nothing if not honest, who never took the easy path."

Skinner rose abruptly and started pacing.

"You think I'm taking the easy path now? That I'm not being honest?" He flung his head to one side, the muscles in his jaw tensing. "This is my problem to solve, Mulder. I have to live with myself..."

"You're wrong, Walter. You're not..."

Before he could finish his sentence Skinner had crossed the room. The front door closed on his words:

"...alone now."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Skinner strode down the street, furious with himself. Too emotional to see straight even. So much churning in his head, he'd been fighting a headache for days, almost revelling in something as tangible as that nagging pain. Compared to the mess that was the rest of his life, a pounding head was almost laughably minor.

At the road end he cut up through the trees to the paths winding behind the houses. He was cold without a coat but the penitential chill suited his mood. There were a few people out walking dogs in the autumn dusk and he really couldn't face meeting any of his neighbours yet, so he angled his route down into the thicker woodland, surprised when he saw lights ahead and realised he was looking down on the backs of the houses. He'd never walked much up here since he moved in, not having the excuse of a dog. He kicked at an empty soda can then noticed there was quite a lot of litter around and the undergrowth in front of him was flattened. A lover's trysting place? Not very salubrious for that. Suddenly Skinner knew exactly who had left this detritus of fast food wrappings.

He lowered himself onto the steeply sloping bank and took in the view through the largely leafless trees. Even without binoculars he recognised his own home and the rectangle of light that was his living room window. He chuckled sourly: so easy. An amateur could have kept him under surveillance and Krycek was no amateur. He'd never even checked out the area when he moved in. Well that just showed how desk-bound he'd become. The first rule of reconnaissance was to secure the perimeter, don't give the enemy any advantage. He'd offered himself to Krycek on a plate.

He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his eyes. He had to see about getting new glasses. His spares were an older prescription and probably contributing to the headache. The ground was chilly and uncomfortable, but he stayed where he was, knowing he had to make some decisions before he faced Mulder again. He knew he'd been worrying Mulder with his silence, but he was terrified of the consequences of giving in to Mulder's affection.

His own need terrified him. How much he longed to forget what had happened to him, to let Mulder comfort him, to let him get close again, to tell him how he had faced the truth of his feelings during that ordeal. That dig about honesty had really hurt because he had tried to be scrupulously honest with himself about this. He loved Fox Mulder and wanted to tell him so, but it seemed more unthinkable than ever after what he had done, what he had let that bastard do to him.

How could he tell Mulder that he loved him, knowing that Alex Krycek had made him betray that love with his hands and his mouth and his cock? Mulder couldn't know the truth of what had happened because he hadn't left, hadn't rejected him like the damaged goods he was now. Skinner could visualise the coldness settling in Mulder's eyes when he heard how the man he thought he could rely on had been powerless to resist a fondling hand, the enemy's hand. Yes, he'd been paralysed, yes he'd filled his head with thoughts of Mulder, but didn't that make him even more pitiable, even less like the man Mulder thought he loved?

Skinner couldn't recognise himself any longer. He'd always taken his strength and will power for granted. Used them to meet the challenges of his life and his career. In his own mind they defined him and when they let him down, what was left? What was he? - a bad risk, a liability. Mulder was right, he couldn't be trusted. And trust was everything where Mulder was concerned.

A movement caught his eye and he looked down at that bright patch of light. He could see Mulder standing looking out into the darkness and he was taken aback by the ache in his heart as he looked at the man. That was the hardest thing of all to face: his mind and heart still wanted Mulder, but his body... Mulder's tender touches in the hospital had been almost unbearable. He'd struggled not to flinch at every loving touch and Mulder had been so understanding, not wanting to push, just trying to reassure him. He knew his panic must have shown on his face sometimes and this evening when Mulder's fingers had wrapped around his wrist... hell, the only reaction he'd had was to want to throw up.

How could he want something so much with his head and be so incapable of enduring it? He was screwed, the rational mind on which he'd prided himself had given up on him. All his foundations were crumbling and he knew he had to find something solid and soon, or this would break him. He'd thought that giving full rein to his self-loathing was the answer, but Mulder was still there: loyal, loving, patient. He was supposed to walk away in disgust and let Skinner rebuild his walls, but he hadn't done that. He'd stayed. Skinner didn't know if that was his lifeline or his damnation.

One thing he did know: he had to tell Mulder everything. He didn't expect Mulder to want anything to do with him after that, but that was probably for the best, because he feared that he could never respond to genuine affection ever again. Mulder would walk and it would be over. He hauled himself stiffly to his feet, numb with cold and began to walk back to the road below.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder turned on the lamps and wondered for the hundredth time if he should go out and look for Walter. It was nearly dark now and cold out, Walter wasn't fit yet, he would make himself ill again... Oh why won't you let me take care of you for once? he demanded of the absent Skinner. It was only 40 minutes since the man had charged out of the house and Mulder was trying hard not to imagine the worst. He just needs time to think things through, he'll come back soon, we'll sort it out...

"We have to." He spoke aloud. "I'm not letting him go. If I have to wait for ever until he lets me near him, I will." He gazed out at the dark hillside behind the house wishing he could get through to Walter, show him how he loved him more than ever... He heard the snick of the door, glad he'd thought to leave it unlocked, and turned to see Skinner standing in the doorway, looking pinched with cold.

With an effort, he held back from folding Walter in an embrace fuelled by worry and want. Instead he just hovered close by as the big man moved into the room and went to stand at the window.

"He watched me from up there." The voice was low and toneless. Mulder recognised Skinner's need to treat this like a case report, to keep one step back from the overwhelming emotions. At least he was talking.

"Maybe for days. I made it easy for him, I barely left this room after I threw you out. With my training I should have known better. That was my fault."

Mulder opened his mouth to protest that last, but Skinner's look of determination stopped him.

"Seeing you at the office that morning was far harder than I could ever have imagined. I thought I'd shut my feelings away, but I hadn't." The voice got even softer, a whisper of sound: "I still haven't."

He stared fixedly out into the dark night, tight-jawed, liquid-eyed. Mulder felt as if they'd had this conversation over and over in an endless agonising loop. He could see the two of them side by side, reflected in the glass, in another world. He made himself wait for Skinner to continue.

"That is no-one's fault..." The last thing Mulder expected and it gave him the first surge of hope he'd felt in a long time... "but I drank myself stupid anyway, thinking about my life, about Jacko, about Sharon... about you." He turned slowly away from the impersonal reflections to the flesh and blood man beside him, his voice painfully expressive now. Mulder could see that this was very hard for Walter. He held himself still.

"I drank too much, then I took too many painkillers. I don't remember much after... my glasses fell, I passed out... That was my fault."

Mulder couldn't stay silent now: "The whisky was drugged. That slime doctored it. It wasn't your fault." He saw Skinner consider this.

"Okay. Not all my fault. I came to in that warehouse. I tried to move and found I couldn't. I kept trying. Mulder, I didn't want to be there."

"Shit, Walter, why would I think you did?" Because you told him he couldn't be trusted out of your sight, you stupid schmuck. "You were kidnapped for God's sake... you were paralysed. Scully says you were lucky to have lived with that cocktail you swallowed... " Oh fuck, that came out wrong too. "I mean it was only because you were so healthy before..."

Skinner didn't flinch at the clumsy, wounding words. He laughed, a rusty, cynical laugh. "Lucky to have lived... that's one way of looking at it. And I wasn't so healthy before. I'd stopped caring." He paused, seeing Mulder's dismay. "It's okay, Mulder, I'm okay with this, just still processing it all."

Mulder studied him carefully. He did look calm. Not the impervious equanimity that was so disconcerting at the office, but still grounded. What it was costing him to speak about all this, Mulder could only guess at, but Walter was nothing if not indomitable. Somehow, he'd psyched himself up to tell Mulder the whole thing. Mulder wanted to know it all, so he could prove to Walter that nothing could change what he felt about him, but not at the cost of Walter's emotions. He would rather not know than see Walter broken by the telling.

Skinner was speaking again, looking right into Mulder's eyes as if to anchor himself.

"He cut my clothes off me and began to... touch me." He reached a hand to block Mulder's agitated movement, but pulled it back before they could touch. "It's all right, Mulder, let me tell it. I tried to resist, to be detached. He kept talking, talking. I didn't listen, tried not to listen, tried not to react. I'd rather have died than let him think I wanted... him."

Mulder grabbed his hand and held on. The strong fingers tensed but he held fast. They tightened around his at last, painfully crushing, but he welcomed the pain, welcomed that grasp, that contact. Eye to eye and now hand in hand, Walter spoke and Mulder listened. Skinner looked ragged, but when his voice faltered, Mulder squeezed his hand and held back his own threatening tears to get them through this.

"I got to a point where I knew what was going to happen. He made it plain. I couldn't physically fight him, but my mind was still my own, so I, I... "

He swallowed shakily, closed his eyes a moment and Mulder stepped closer, ready to catch the big man if he sagged. Skinner nodded once and went on:

"I thought of you. Not doing what he was doing, but doing what I'd dreamed of. I imagined touching you as I'd longed to, I tasted your skin and felt your breath on me, your hands, your mouth, your..."

Mulder just nodded and let a smile start in his eyes. Now he realised what Walter had been feeling so guilty about. He'd felt ashamed of not having fought back, but he'd been able to rationalise that, accept that it was not his fault. But the shame he felt over having invoked Mulder's spirit in the midst of something so sordid and brutal was weighing him down. It must seem like the ultimate betrayal to Skinner, as if he had sullied their love... He needed to know that this was the very thing that redeemed this nightmare, which proved to Mulder how real their love was. He held the big hand and let the smile light up his whole face. He knew the effect it could have and was glad of it. Never had he wanted to show his love more than at that moment.

"Then I was with you, Walter. And you survived it to be with me. He couldn't begin to understand that love, and he couldn't touch you here," he laid his free hand over Walter's heart, "where we are together."

He felt the tension still straining in Walter, not yet at ease with being touched. It tore at his heart to see the damage that little shit had done. But at least he could now begin to repair it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For a moment, Skinner thought he was going to keel over. He felt... what did he feel? Drained, exhausted... but the headache was gone at last. The vise around his head had loosened, he felt shaky but warmer than he had in a while. Mulder still grasped his hand, and that still unnerved him, but Mulder was smiling too - an incredible joyous smile. That made him feel warmer. What Mulder had said about his deepest feelings being beyond Krycek's touch... could he really understand, accept how Skinner had used the love to survive? Mulder's thumb rubbed across the back of his wrist. More warmth. Less doubt. His eyes were closing with weariness, though it felt a healthier tiredness than the numbed sedation of recent days.

He let that warm hand lead him away. Maybe Mulder would still be here in the morning, maybe that would be the best thing that had ever happened to him. Maybe this time it wasn't too late.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder had slept in Skinner's bed throughout his recuperation. He had wanted to be close by, to offer assistance if Skinner needed him, helping him to the bathroom when the other man was slow and shaky on his feet. For a while Skinner had been uneasy with even being held as they lay in bed, and Mulder had respected that, but the one time he had moved to retreat to the spare room, he caught a flicker of something in the dark eyes and realised it was just a line being drawn, not a door closing.

He knew that it was important that Skinner made the first move towards any closer physical intimacy, so that he could feel that he had control over it, in a way that had been so savagely denied him during his ordeal at Krycek's hands. He came back to the wide bed and crawled in next to Skinner, close but not encroaching. Every day the line grew more fluid.

This evening they sat together in companionable silence, watching the television in bed - Mulder having initiated Skinner in his own bad habits. At some point Skinner's head came to rest on Mulder's shoulder, and Mulder laid his own head against the other man's. It was a simple gesture, but somehow it meant a great deal to Mulder. He laced his fingers through Skinner's, traced lines on the palm of the other man's hand.

"One thing I wanted to say...but couldn't..." Skinner began, as they sat there, not looking at each other, heads resting together. "I...lied. I lied to myself and to you. I even lied to Jacko all those years ago. I'm a coward, Mulder. I'm scared of my own feelings."

"You're not a coward. You're the bravest person I've ever known", Mulder said vehemently, moving his head, pulling Skinner's around to face him, looking deep into the other man's eyes.

"No." Skinner would not look at him. "You see, the truth is..." he cleared his throat, his face flushed "...the truth is that I love you. And I pushed you away and in doing that I hurt you. I just need you to know that any hurt I caused to you, I also caused myself, a dozen times worse."

"Hush." Mulder's fingers found Skinner's lips. "The only part I needed to hear, was that you love me. Do you also trust me?" he asked, pulling Skinner's face up gently so that the other man finally looked at him.

"Yes." Skinner's eyes were dark with sincerity.

"Good. I don't want to cause you any pain. I want to take away the memory of him."

Mulder watched as Skinner leaned forward hesitantly, and touched his lips to Mulder's mouth, unsure and hopeful. Mulder sighed, and gently caressed Skinner's shoulder, opening his mouth under the kiss and allowing Skinner to push his tongue slowly inside, probing tenderly. When Skinner drew back, there was a shy smile on his face.

"I've wanted that for a long time," he admitted.

"Me too." Mulder smiled.

"Uh..." Skinner cleared his throat. "What next?"

Mulder couldn't help laughing out loud. "Well I can think of lots of things. Do you want me to show you what I had in mind?"

Skinner grinned, but Mulder didn't miss the anxiety that was evident in the other man's eyes. "I don't want to freeze on you," Skinner admitted. "I can't tell what buttons this will press for me."

"That's okay. We'll take it slow and see what happens. Now you just tell me if I do anything you don't like. You're in control of this, all right?"

"I've always been able to take care of myself, but I wasn't in control with him. I couldn't move a muscle...", Skinner whispered.

"I know. You didn't have any choice. Don't blame yourself, Walter. This will be different. I promise." Mulder ran his fingers gently down the side of Skinner's face, caressed the other man's neck. Then he touched his lips against Skinner's ear, licked his way behind it.

Skinner moaned and pressed back against the pillows. "You know, you are way too over-dressed for this party," Mulder scolded teasingly, finding the edge of Skinner's tee shirt and pulling it over his head, throwing it to the floor. Mulder ran his fingers gently over the rapidly fading bruises on Skinner's ribs and then lightly caressed a nipple, his tongue lapping against Skinner's neck, kissing down his collarbone. His fingers stroked Skinner's chest hair softly, with infinite tenderness, one eye always fixed on his lover's face, making sure he was happy with the caress.

Skinner raised his hands and lightly ran them through Mulder's hair as the other man sucked on his nipples. Then Mulder's hand slipped into his boxers and within seconds that garment had joined the tee shirt on the floor.

"Oh, boy, Walter. This is good." Mulder grinned happily, taking Skinner's hardening cock into his hand, smoothing his thumb along the length of the shaft and over the crown. Skinner started to whimper and Mulder smiled and ducked his face down, taking the warm, hard length of flesh into his mouth. He was surprised when Skinner immediately lost his erection.

"What is it?" Mulder looked up, saw the misery in his lover's eyes.

"He...uh, he made me..." Mulder knew only too well what memories Skinner was fighting: of Krycek's cock in his throat, thrusting at him, the hard, angry length of him pounding into his mouth until he lost consciousness. "You don't have to...I don't want you to..." Skinner said.

"You think I don't want to?" Mulder sat astride his lover's hips, his hands resting gently on Skinner's shoulders. "I'd love to feel you in my mouth, Walter."

"It doesn't disgust you?" Skinner asked.

"No. Shit no. I've been dreaming of it," Mulder told him honestly. "This isn't the same as what happened with him. I love you, and I know that you love me. I won't suck you if you don't want me to, but if you're worried that I'll hate it, please don't be." He leaned forward and kissed Skinner's lips gently. "Hell, I'd be happy just to sit here and kiss you." He grinned.

"I can tell." Skinner glanced down pointedly at where Mulder's hard cock was digging into his abdomen. "And talk about being overdressed..."

"You're right. Tell you what, why don't I slip into something more comfortable?" Mulder laughed, climbing off the bed and turning the television off. "You're not going to need that. I'm going to be providing the floor show tonight." He licked his lips slowly and provocatively at Skinner until the other man snorted and threw a pillow at him.

"Well get on with it then." Skinner grinned.

Mulder winked, and began unbuttoning his shirt, slowly, one button at a time, his eyes fixed on his lover the whole time. When he reached the final button, he opened the shirt wide and slid it sensuously off first one shoulder, then the other, before allowing it to shimmy to the floor. Then he strutted over to the bed, and claimed a kiss from a laughing Skinner before turning around and sticking his butt into the air while he tangled his fingers in his fly. Skinner gave him a slap on the ass.

"Tease," he remonstrated.

"The best things come to those who wait." Mulder grinned, sauntering back to the foot of the bed. He unzipped his fly then zipped it back up again, while Skinner lay weak with laughter on the bed, then he unzipped again and rolled his jeans down to his ankles before jumping around and bending over, gazing at Skinner through his long legs.

"Get 'em off." Skinner started a slow clap and Mulder grinned, kicking his jeans off and hooking one finger through the waistband of his boxer shorts. He quickly lowered the fabric covering his buttocks, exposing his backside to Skinner for a brief instant, then covering it again. Skinner groaned and lay back on the pillows in a haze of helpless amusement. Finally Mulder turned around, and slowly, very slowly, lowered his boxer shorts to his ankles and kicked them into the corner, revealing his cock in all of its semi-erect glory.

"Oh God..." Skinner muttered weakly.

"Coming to getcha..." Mulder crawled his way back up the bed, and took Skinner in his arms, smothering his body with tiny kisses.

"You shouldn't make me laugh, my ribs ache," Skinner protested, but he looked more relaxed than Mulder could remember in a long time.

"Kiss my ass," was Mulder's response, and he meant it quite literally, turning his back on the other man, and straddling him, going down to Skinner's cock which was now definitely starting to get hard again. With his backside in the air, being treated to some nuzzling licks and kisses courtesy of Skinner, Mulder took the other man's cock in his mouth once more, and sucked greedily, swallowing the hard length.

"Oh god...shit..." Skinner moaned, as he was unable to hold back any more. "Damn. I haven't come that quickly since I was a horny teenager," he muttered.

"I'll take that as a testament to my superb abilities in the sack then," Mulder told him, emerging from between Skinner's legs with a bright grin. "You okay big guy?" he asked, gently tweaking one of his lover's nipples.

"Yes," Skinner told him, smiling widely. "Fine." Their eyes met for a moment and Mulder felt a sense of elation. He'd drive that rat bastard out of Skinner's head if it took him every last part of his skill and every ounce of love in him. He took one of Skinner's hands and placed it on his cock, gently rocking himself into it, kissing his lover at the same time.

"I could..." Skinner gestured that he would suck Mulder but Mulder shook his head.

"Not this time, baby. Another time," he whispered. "I like what you're doing there anyway...ooh, shit, I like that..." He came all over Skinner's chest and then looked down in dismay. "Sorry." He made a face and ran to get a washcloth.

"I didn't mind." Skinner lay back and allowed Mulder to wash him. When he'd finished they lay back together on the pillows, still naked. Mulder held his lover in his arms, nuzzling the side of his face gently.

"That was so good," Skinner murmured. "Just what I always wanted it to be. Fox?" He bit on his lip slightly, then met the other man's eyes. "When Krycek...just before you arrived, he wanted to..."

"I know." Mulder silenced his lover with a kiss.

"Jacko and I never... I never have - nobody ever has to me..." Skinner began, uncertainly.

"That's okay. We don't have to..." Mulder began but this time it was Skinner's turn to silence him. He looked up and met Mulder's eyes, flushing.

"No. I know that. But the truth is that when he started...when he was pawing me, telling me what he planned on doing - I knew that I wanted it to be you. I want to feel you inside me." He held Mulder's gaze steadily. "Would you do that? For me?"

"Would I do that? You say it as if I wouldn't want to. I'd love to, Walter. I want to be as close to you as possible. I want to feel myself inside you, to feel our bodies become one...but you're still recovering. Another time..."

"No." Skinner pulled Mulder close to him, his hands running feverishly up and down the other man's arms. "That's just it. I'm sick of other times, of delaying everything all my life. I'm sick of it being too late. It was too late for Jacko, for Sharon. I don't want it to be too late for you and me. Please, Fox." He kissed Mulder's jaw, tenderly and Mulder melted against him, surrendering to the sweet embrace. Walter sounded so adamant, so ready for this. Mulder felt a little light-headed himself.

"All right. But we're doing this slowly."

They would need lube, and some protection, hell, he hadn't been prepared for this yet, did he have anything in his dopp kit? He looked dubiously towards the bathroom and felt Walter's knowing gaze following his thought processes.

"I don't suppose you have...?" He was confronted with a faintly blushing grin.

"Condoms I have. In the nightstand." A canted eyebrow warned him not to question that good fortune. "I know you need something for lubrication - there's Crisco in the kitchen, or I believe I have some massage oil in there..." He nodded towards the bathroom. "And don't even think about asking..." Deadpan expression. Mulder cranked his gaping jaw shut and climbed off the bed to investigate, muttering "Crisco... Crisco!"

He laid Skinner on his front, his butt raised on pillows, trailed a line of kisses down that broad back, and over the taut round buttocks, before pressing one almond-oil-lubed finger gently inside. Skinner moaned and thrust against the finger.

"Harder..." he whispered.

"Slower," Mulder insisted, tapping his lover's ribs. "I wouldn't want to break you."

"As if," Skinner mumbled into the pillow, gasping as Mulder slipped another finger inside him and then a third, moving back onto those fingers, opening himself up to their probing and shivering with delight as Mulder found his prostate and rubbed it gently. After several long minutes, Mulder found his own cock was ready for action again.

"Are you ready?" he asked, one hand still moving steadily inside his lover, the other resting on Skinner's buttocks, cupping them lightly, squeezing and kneading.

"Oh yeah..." Skinner lay stretched out, legs akimbo, his long, bulky body totally relaxed, his skin glistening with sweat and glowing a healthy honey colour against the white sheets.

"Okay, but let me know if you don't like this." Mulder positioned himself over Skinner's opening, snubbing the tip of his sheathed cock into the other man.

"All right...?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes..." Skinner tried to thrust back onto him and Mulder's hard length slipped deep inside, gliding into his lover's body with slick, easy thrusts. "Shit...please...it's wonderful..." Skinner panted, his buttocks moving up in time to meet Mulder's slow thrusting. "More..."

Mulder speeded up, his cock totally enveloped by Skinner's warm flesh, unbearably aroused to the extent where he was soon unable to hold himself back and he came deep within his lover's body.

"Amazing..." Mulder lay down on Skinner's back, still immersed inside his lover, and kissed Skinner's shoulder blades. "I love you," he whispered in the other man's ear.

"I love you too," Skinner whispered back.

They lay like that for a long time, and then Mulder eased himself off the other man, and rolled over beside him on the bed.

"Okay?" He asked.

Skinner smiled. "Oh yeah. More than okay."

At that point, Mulder remembered something he had collected that morning and left in his jacket pocket. Stopping only to deposit a brief kiss to Skinner's head, he ran to get it, wondering what Skinner's elderly next door neighbour would say if she saw him running around naked in his boss's house.

"I brought you something," he said, returning to the bedroom and climbing into the bed next to his lover, taking him in his arms, and handing him the small box. Skinner opened it, and drew out his glasses.

"But I...weren't these...?"

"Yeah. I had them mended. You didn't think I'd give them back to you broken did you?" Mulder asked, surprised.

Skinner was silent for a long moment. Finally Mulder glanced down, and was stunned to see that the other man had tears in his eyes as he fingered the glasses.

"I know it's stupid." Skinner brushed the tears away. "Small acts of kindness sometimes mean more than all the words in the world." Mulder hugged him close and kissed the other man's bald head over and over again.

"I know," he whispered. "And I remember every last one of yours. Every one that said you loved me, even before I knew how I felt about you. Every last time you stood up for me, rescued me, helped me. Your actions have always spoken volumes to me, Walter. I want you to know that."

They lay there in silence for a long time, dozing, just taking pleasure in being so close. Finally Skinner turned to his lover and said softly.

"I'm ready to face the past now, Fox. Will you come with me?"

Mulder took Skinner's face between his hands.

"Walter, of course I will. I don't ever want us to be apart again."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Epilogue

It was definitely winter now, the temperature in the shadow of the polished granite wall had an arctic bite to it and their breath froze in the air around them.

Mulder hung back a little and let his two companions walk forward together. He was still surprised that Walter had asked him to come with them, but his lover had been quietly insistent:

"I want you there Fox."

Hog looked back over his shoulder at the younger man and slowed to let him catch up.

"He's okay, son. Hell, he's more than okay, considering... "

They both looked at Skinner's broad back ahead of them on the path. He was walking with that lithe stride that made Mulder's pulse speed and he had the old indefinable air of command back. He looked fit, clear-eyed, vigorous. Back at work, impressing the bosses with his renewed energy, it finally seemed as if the shadow of the past weeks had been lifted. Mulder still felt the need to reassure himself about Walter's health and well being but even he could see the difference now.

They were not the only ones visiting the Vietnam memorial on this bright frosty November morning, but just at the moment there was no-one else in sight so Mulder walked ahead to Skinner's side and put a hand on the bigger man's arm. Walter reached his own hand over to rest on his lover's and looked into Mulder's face.

His broad face was calm and his expressive eyes smiled at Mulder behind the wirerims. Without words he gave reassurance and Mulder let his own hand fall away, satisfied. He chastised himself for wanting to pull his lover into his arms and kiss him breathless, even here. There's a time and a place, he scolded his libido, and this is not it. But looking at that imposing long-legged figure, remembering how he had woken to the caress of those big gentle hands this morning...

The last week had been extraordinary. Walter and he had talked more than they had in all the years they'd known each other. Serious stuff, stuff that most guys didn't... well, Walter definitely wasn't "most guys" and hard as it had been for him, he'd talked. Mulder had discovered the unflinching honesty of Walter's self-knowledge. And the power of Walter's belief in him. It took his breath away.

And the love. In every look and word. In nights spent just holding each other as Walter learned to accept his touches, in their first tentative lovemaking, in mornings standing shoulder to shoulder as they shaved, in shared meals and movies and daily routines. Loving this man was the purest pleasure Mulder had ever known, but being loved by him was... beyond... the most... Mulder gave up trying to find the words and swallowed hard, squinting into the low sun to see where his lover had got to.

Up ahead Skinner had slowed and was scanning the names etched into the smooth black surface. Finding the place he sought, he stopped and turned to face the wall, his hand resting on the carved letters. For a moment he stood, head bowed, his fingers moving over the names, then he straightened and turned to the other two men.

"I'd like you to meet some old friends of mine."

His deep voice soft with memory he read the roll call of his fallen comrades. A Texas farmboy, the son of a Minnesota Lutheran pastor, a brilliant mathematician who had passed up a place at Johns Hopkins to join the Corps... All these men came to life again as Skinner spoke of them, and Dorsey and Mulder stood close and paid their respects.

After a few minutes they walked on, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Hog was in front, and as he reached an angle in the massive slabs of polished stone, he swung back to Skinner. He indicated a spot at shoulder height.

"Here, Walt. Here's Jacko."

Mulder thought it was an odd way to phrase it - it was just a name here, no grave, no remains - but then he realised that it served for these two men, as they remembered. They stood side by side as he stayed back and watched them. Hog was a little stooped over his cane and not so tall now as the straight-backed Skinner. He stood turned slightly towards the younger man, as if offering silent support. After a moment Hog's hand came up to rest on Skinner's shoulder. Such gestures were not jarring here, where affection and loyalty and shared loss were declared in every graven name.

Hog had been here before, maybe more than once. He had made his farewells to Jacko. Now it was for Walter to lay his ghosts to rest. Hog stepped away from him after a while and took Mulder by the elbow, leading him further along the wall, giving Walter his privacy.

Looking back, Mulder could see Walter's lips moving, saw him do that head swing that usually meant he was struggling with some fierce emotion. He wanted to go to him, stand close. He started to move, but Hog's heavy hand gripped his arm and held him back.

"Let him have a minute, son. You've got all the rest of his life."

Mulder felt the flush rise over his face, and could only nod. Hog patted his arm. They moved to a bench nearby and sat in the sun. He kept a watch on Walter and when eventually the other man squared his shoulders and beckoned him over, he was suddenly shy and needed Hog's push to get him moving.

Walter's dark eyes scanned his face and Mulder flushed again, at the sight of such clear affection in his lover's gaze. Skinner turned them both back to the wall, to the letters that spelled out "John M. Jackson." No introduction necessary this time. His voice was husky when he finally spoke:

"Why one person lives and another dies is not for us to know. I have to believe that I survived for a purpose, that I'm still needed."

They weren't touching, but Mulder could feel the connection between them. He wanted to say something momentous, something to convey what he was feeling, but for once words failed him. He grabbed for Skinner's hand and felt the strength in that warm clasp.

When Skinner finally moved away, Mulder stayed, laying his palm over Jacko's name, seeing in his mind's eye that sandy-haired boy who had loved Walter too. The past is another country. The words came unbidden into his head. He'd had a glimpse of that other time and place and felt he could see those young faces, which had not had the chance to grow older. He looked at Skinner, so inextricably a part of his life now, and for a moment considered the providence that had decided that Walter should survive.

Just for a moment he allowed himself to think of how his own life might have been changed if Walter had died. During Operation Crossbow, in that clearing a few months later, in a remote weather station in a different jungle, or in a dusty warehouse here in the nation's capital. He knew that the tangled lines of fate had consequences beyond calculation, but he also knew that however it had come about, he was profoundly glad that he and Walter had found each other.

He looked up at the clear wintry sky, at the birds circling in the vast pale blue, then at the scene around him. Quiet figures walking along the neat paths, a child laughing, the bare trees and the hard earth and the sense of time stretching out behind and ahead of him. So many lives intersecting and touching... He looked at the man whose life was now so precious to him, so essential. As he gazed, Skinner looked back at him and smiled and Mulder felt all the good things in his life like a blanket warming him, feeding him energy and hope and love.

He looked one last time at the name where his hand rested.

"It's going to be all right, Jacko. Yeah, I really think it is." And he turned from the wall and jogged to catch the others up, his shoulder jostling against Skinner's as they fell into stride.

THE END

  
Archived: April 21, 2001 


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